


portentum

by gothyringwald



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: Once upon a time, there lived a boy who had forgotten what it was to be loved. He was beaten and spurned, called ugly things by those who should protect him. He was called a beast and so he became one.(A Beauty and the Beast AU).





	1. la château de la bête

**Author's Note:**

> **portentum**  
>  _noun_  
>  1\. a sign, token, omen, portent  
> 2\. a monster, monstrosity  
> 3\. a marvellous fiction, extravagance, absurdity  
>  **portent**  
>  _noun_  
>  1\. a sign or warning that a momentous or calamitous event is likely to happen.  
> 2\. _literary_ an exceptional or wonderful person or thing.
> 
>  **UPDATE 3/5/17:** I now have a soundtrack for the fic which you can listen to [on playmoss here](https://playmoss.com/en/gothyringwald/playlist/portentum-soundtrack), [on 8tracks here](https://8tracks.com/gothyringwald/portentum-soundtrack) or [reblog on tumblr here](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/158007176817/portentum-a-gravescredence-beauty-the-beast) if you so wish. Enjoy! :)
> 
>  **UPDATE 7/5/17:** I got bored and made a [moodboard/aesthetic post thing](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/160370489329/portentum-a-gradence-beauty-and-the-beast-au) for the fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned I was working on this when I posted my Secretary AU and I finally have the first chapter done. Yay. Un-beta'd, as usual.

Once upon a time, there lived a boy who was born with magic. He loved flowers, and dancing and all animals. He had a mother, who was beautiful, kind and clever, her long hair as dark as the midnight sky, as dark as his own. But his mother perished and he was left all alone in the world. He was taken in by a wealthy woman with an ugly heart, who hated magic and all who possessed it. She beat him and treated him like a servant. She called him unnatural, a freak, an abomination of nature. So he hid his magic deep within himself, keeping it locked safe from her cruelty, until he forgot it was there. But it curdled within him, darkening and consuming him. The woman called him a beast and so he became one.

__

_That long-drawn, wavering howl has, for all its fearful resonance, some inherent sadness in it, as if the beasts would love to be less beastly if only they knew how and never cease to mourn their own condition._  
-“The Company of Wolves” by Angela Carter.

_There is many a monster who wears the form of a man; it is better of the two to have the heart of a man and the form of a monster._  
-in “Beauty and the Beast” from _The fairy book: the best popular fairy stories_ by Dinah Craik

 

Percival Graves is in a forest, it's nighttime, and he is alone. These are three things he knows should be impossible, yet they are not. He turns on the spot, eyes the spindly trees that surround him, but they hold no clues. The world spins too fast, and he braces himself against a tree, bark rough under his grazed palm. He presses harder, hopes the sting will steady him, but his body is a cacophony of aches and pains and he can barely discern the bite of the bark from everything else.

His brain feels as foggy as the air around him. He can't remember exactly how he came to be here, mind blank like those few disorienting moments upon waking. He takes a deep breath, wincing, a sharp stab in his ribs. He presses a hand to them but they are only bruised, not broken. This is good. He casts his gaze about. A few feet off, his wand lies in a pool of hazy moonlight. He staggers over to it, tucks it into the safety of his coat, too dizzy to attempt any spells.

The biting air he breathes into his aching lungs begins to clear his mind, memories of the evening slowly dripping into his consciousness. There was a mission – an important one, or the Director of Magical Security, himself, wouldn't have gone – a band of rogue witches and wizards intent on exposing their world to no-maj's. A bunch of crackpots, Graves had thought, but the new Auror – Grindelwald, astute, sets Graves's teeth on edge – had intel that suggested otherwise. Graves was in a duel with one of the rogues, hexes cracking from his wand like a bullwhip through the air, when he was hit with one himself, overcome. Was it his opponent, the tall man with mousy hair and long fingers, or someone else who threw it? He can't remember.

Shame floods him to think of being defeated, but it will not do to dwell. All the same, he sits heavily on a fallen tree – elbows on his knees, head braced on his stinging hands – and his stomach turns, from the hex or the shame, he doesn't know.

The hex was strong, blasted him to Merlin knows where and, he realises with mounting panic, he can't feel his magic humming through him. He withdraws his wand, whispers lumos, but nothing happens. It makes little sense but the evidence is clear: he can't use his magic. Temporarily, he hopes. No, is certain. Whatever the hex did, impossible as it seems, it won't last, he assures himself.

But, he thinks grimly, surveying the desolate forest around him, the effects will likely last long enough for him to be torn apart and made a feast of by some wild animal in his weakened state. A lonesome howl rings through the forest, as though his thoughts of beasts had conjured it. It is a mournful sound, and it sends a chill through Graves, that has nothing to do with the frigid winter air.

His vision swims as he stands again and his head throbs. He reaches up, wincing when he prods a tender spot at the back of his head, and his fingers come away wet, shining red in the moonlight. Well, he thinks, at least he may die of blood loss before he gets eaten. A fierce wind whistles past him, and he tucks his wand away, pulls his coat tighter around his shivering body. A snowflake lands on his face, followed by another, and another, and Graves adds hypothermia to his ever growing 'possible causes of death' list. He's not sure which he favours. The quickest, he supposes.

He shakes himself. Standing here all night, contemplating his possibly imminent death, won't get him anywhere. He's endured worse than this, after all. So, he decides on a direction and walks through the forest, ignoring the protests of his aching bones, dodging stray branches as best he can, tripping over his own feet. He needs to find somewhere safe, out of the cold, until he recovers enough to use his magic, to apparate home.

As he walks, boots sinking into the undergrowth, he thinks of his Aurors, hopes they got away, especially Miss Goldstein. If they made it back to MACUSA, a search party will already have been sent after him. He'd probably never be missed at all, if it wasn't for his job, he thinks, except perhaps by Hecate, his cat and only companion, but even she seems largely indifferent to him most of the time. He sighs, breath misting, limbs like lead, but keeps walking until there is a clearing.

Fog settles over the bare ground, swirling, like wispy smoke over a bubbling cauldron. It is eerily pretty. A rustling from the forest startles Graves. He turns but there is nothing behind him but the stretch of ghostly trees disappearing into the gloom. He shakes his head, immediately regrets it when nausea washes over him, and walks on, legs heavy.

A castle looms up out of the mist, unwelcoming and ominous. Graves blinks. A castle, right out of a fairy tale, in upstate New York. But is he still in New York? Is he even in the United States at all? He groans, pushes the questions aside to deal with later, and moves toward the castle, swaying slightly, desperate to be out of the cold.

Closer, he sees the imposing structure is overgrown with vines, pushing through the masonry, stones crumbling. It's probably abandoned, he thinks, heart sinking. But, no, there is a small dot of yellow light in one of the top windows, a beacon in the velvet darkness of night. He's not sure he wants to know who could live out here, so isolated, but meeting its owner has almost certainly got to be better than dying. Maybe.

The heavy doors swing open of their own accord, but Graves doesn't spare a thought for this as he stumbles through, into a courtyard filled with flowers and the scent of decay. His stomach churns. His knees give way, now that he's stopped moving, and he lands on them with a sickening crunch.

Who's going to look after my cat, he thinks, before his vision fades and he lands with a heavy thunk on the stone floor.

__

The great doors of the castle groan as they swing open and the Beast starts, his keen ears pricking up. That's odd, he thinks, for he is alone, always, so there is no one else here to open the doors. He sniffs, snout twitching, as an unfamiliar scent comes to him on an air current. He follows the scent to the courtyard, claws scratching over the floors as he bounds through the halls.

A strange creature is crumpled on the floor, unlike all the forest animals the Beast knows so well, though there is something familiar about its shape, its form. The Beast pads over to it, cautious. Is it dead? He pokes at it with one great paw but nothing happens. He leans down and sniffs. Whatever the creature is, it smells good beneath the dirt and blood.

Could be nice for dinner, he thinks, though he's not sure if the good scent is a food scent or something else. A scent that stirs something long forgotten within him. From the recesses of his mind the word 'man' appears and the Beast knows that this is a man laying before him. He ponders this but then the man groans and he realises he's still alive. In pain. Instinct tells him he should save the man, instead of devouring him. He picks the man up with little effort, slinging him across a shoulder, and carries him somewhere warmer.

__

A fire crackles nearby, popping and hissing, the scent of burning wood rousing Graves from slumber. Nausea overcomes him as he attempts to sit up, get his bearings. He remembers a duel, a dark forest and a strange castle. But he doesn't remember the fire or this room, so someone must have moved him here. He must not be alone.

He becomes aware of a low rumbling and attempts to sit, again, to see where it's coming from. When he manages to, without retching, he notices a large, dark figure in the shadows, outside of the light cast by the fire.

'Hello?' His head pounds as he speaks, and he presses the heel of his palm to his temple.

The figure starts, pulls back deeper into the gloom. Graves tries to stand, move toward it, but the room tilts and he falls back, sitting heavily, braced on his hands.

'I just want to thank-you,' he says, chest heaving. Everything seems so much harder to do, right now, his body aching all over, stomach unsettled, threatening to empty itself.

The figure moves slowly, cautiously, from the shadows and Graves swallows a gasp, fights the urge to reel back, as the light falls onto them. 'Merlin's beard,' he breathes.

Before him stands a great, leonine beast, sleek black fur covering his body, long tail flicking out from behind. A black mane flows about his face, and he stands on his hind legs, like a man, shoulders hunched, huge paws resting on muscled thighs. Graves's heart pounds fast.

'Hello,' he says, again, inanely, for the creature won't reply but then it echoes, 'Hello,' head ducked in an oddly human gesture. Graves has faced many strange, impossible things in his career but the beast standing before him – who can, against all reason, talk – is, undoubtedly, the strangest and most impossible.

Graves takes deep, steadying breaths, as he eyes the beast, tries to collect himself, but his brain feels fogged, every bone and muscle screaming. He feels weak. His throat is parched and he decides to focus on this. 'Do you have something I could drink?'

'There's a creek, where I drink.' The Beast gestures with an alarmingly large paw, claws gleaming in the firelight. His voice is halting as though he's unused to speaking.

'I don't think I can move. Could you bring me some water?' Graves isn't sure if he's pressing his luck, but he needs to drink, and soon.

The Beast grunts, stalks off on all fours and Graves takes the time to survey his surroundings. He seems to be in a study, or library, but it's covered in cobwebs and dust, snaking vines and sprawling bushes of flowers that give off a sickly sweet scent. It clearly hasn't been used for many years. Graves is on the ground, by the fireplace, a pile of furs covering him. He reaches up to his head and feels the blood has been cleaned away, the wound clotted. All his other injuries are just the strains of duelling that should heal enough within a few days. He's not quite so hurt as he had thought he was, though he is still too weak to leave.

Soon, the Beast returns, a wooden bucket clasped in his teeth, which he sets down near Graves, water splashing over the rim. The Auror blinks. 'Thank-you.'

The Beast grunts and moves into the shadows, again, but closer than before, so Graves can still see him. He sits back on his haunches, watches Graves as he attempts to drink from the bucket, clumsy hands slipping over the slick wood. The water tastes earthy but he gulps it down.

He sets the bucket aside, wipes over his mouth. 'Do you have a name?'

'A name?' The Beast looks at him with confusion, brow furrowed, as though Graves has asked him the meaning of life and not for a name. He considers a moment longer, but then he shakes his head, mane swishing, and simply says, 'No.'

He doesn't sound certain but Graves is too tired to push it. 'Oh. I'm Percival. Graves.'

'Percival.' The Beast repeats, his voice low, rumbling almost like a purr.

Graves flushes and shucks off his coat, suddenly too warm in the close heat of the fire, bundled in furs. The Beast growls and Graves frowns up at him, wary. 'What?'

'You-,' the Beast starts, brandishing a paw, and Graves scoots back. 'You took off your skin.'

'My skin?' Graves's brain is still slow with sleep, and it takes him a moment to realise what the Beast means. He picks up his coat, holds it out but the Beast shrinks back. 'Oh. No, this is a coat. These are clothes,' he says, plucking at his suit jacket. 'They go over my skin.'

'Over your skin?' The Beast tilts his head, edges closer, again. He reaches for the coat, now lying on the floor, runs a tentative paw over it.

Graves nods, head throbbing. He swallows thickly. 'Yes, to protect me. Like your fur protects you.'

'Oh,' says the Beast. 'Clothes.' There is a faraway look on his face, almost wistful. It's unsettling.

Graves clears his throat and looks away. 'Thank-you. For helping me.' The thanks come awkwardly to Graves who is not used to giving them. 'I'm in your debt. How can I repay you?'

The Beast moves toward Graves, who readies himself for a blow, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his throat, still wary despite the kindness shown. But he only crouches down, still a few feet between them, tail curled over his leg. He looks at Graves, blinks his large, brown eyes, feline but eerily human, and says, 'Stay with me.'

__

'I take it the mission did not go as planned, Miss Goldstein,' says Picquery, voice tight.

Tina shakes her head, contrite, hands folded behind her back. 'No, ma'am.'

'And where is Graves?' The president taps her foot, arms crossed.

'I'm here,' says Graves, as he steps into the room. He bows his head, hiding the gleam in his eye, the curl at the edge of his mouth. 'But I'm afraid we lost Auror Grindelwald in the fray.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I wasn't going to post anything until I had a few chapters done but I got impatient. ;D
> 
> I'm probably handwaving some of the magic stuff, here. I think it'll make sense eventually, though.
> 
> I'm imagining the Beast's appearance being based on [Vincent Cassel's Beast](http://kissthemgoodbye.net/movie/displayimage.php?album=322&pid=704999#top_display_media) in the 2014 _La Belle et la Bête_ by Christophe Gans. But with black fur.


	2. a friend, at last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Mentions of a dead animal (that is then eaten) & blood in this chapter - I didn't know what to tag for but wanted to warn for anyone squeamish or sensitive to that sort of thing.
> 
> Oh, and thanks to everyone who read/commented/left kudos on the first chapter! Very much appreciated :D

Graves sleeps fitfully by the fire in the library for the first night, and most of the first day, at the Beast's castle. His sleep is dreamless, but fevered, troubled. No matter which way he turns, his body aches, but it needs sleep, too and he continues to drift in and out of restless slumber. Eventually, his discomfort overcomes him and he awakes with a start, bolts upright, groans as his head begins to throb, again. Beside him is another bucket of water and he drinks from it gratefully. He slumps against the edge of the fireplace, furs still piled around him. Beneath his clothes, he's covered in sweat, and he shucks off his jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves. He gets to his knees, then pushes off the floor, to stand on wobbling legs. 

His brain is still sluggish and so he stretches his limbs, stiff from sleep, and looks over the room, again. Now that he is able to move around, albeit slower than usual, he decides to investigate. The room is large, probably as large as Graves's entire apartment, with high vaulted ceilings. Shelves, filled with antique books, some crumbling, line the walls, a rotting ladder leaning against one of them. He picks up one of the books that's still intact, flips through it, but the words swim on the page. He puts it back, moves to the other side of the room. 

An oak desk sits in a corner, nearby, with a correspondence set open on top, a quill and a pot of dried, cracking ink next to it. He runs his hand along the desk, fingers coming away coated in thick, grey dust. He wipes them on his already soiled vest and turns. Two armchairs face a window with heavy, moth-eaten drapes. They're drawn, and Graves pulls on the cord to open them but it falls out and Graves drops it with a heavy sigh. He wonders if there is anything here not in a state of disrepair or decay. Still, he can see that the room would have been majestic, once upon a time. He wonders who used to live here, how long since the Beast has claimed it for his own.

He turns his attention inwards, assessing his physical state and, with relief, finds he can sense his magic humming throdugh him, again. He's still not well enough to apparate without risking splinching, doesn't know how far from home he is, besides, but he goes back to the fireplace to retrieve his coat, reaches inside for his wand, nonetheless. Dismay rises within him when he pulls it out of the inside pocket and finds it is broken.

The bitter irony that it would survive his being blasted to that damned forest, only to snap under his body when he fainted, is not lost on him. He throws the broken pieces of his wand across the room, and slides to the floor, braces his head in his hands. He's had his wand for years, naturally – through school, auror training, the rise of his career – and even on his most dangerous missions, he kept it safe. He grunts in frustration, hands fisted in his hair, then lets out his held breath with a sigh. There is nothing to be done about it. But now he must either wait for the search party to find him, if they ever do – Miss Goldstein is determined, he's sure she won't give up quickly – or walk out of here. He's not going to apparate without a wand. 

Claws scratch across the floor, and Graves forgets about his wand as his mysterious companion comes into the library. He had wondered, briefly, if he had merely dreamed up this creature in a delirious state. But, no, he is real. The Beast slinks in, shoulder blades rolling, mane coming out around him like great wisps of black smoke, as he moves. A deer is clenched in his maw, and blood drips down his chin, matting his fur. Graves scrambles to stand, leaning back against the fireplace.

The deer is dropped at his feet, its throat ripped out, the fetid stench of viscera wafting up to him. He has to fight to keep from retching. 'What's this?' He looks to the Beast, eyebrows raised, hands gripping the edge of the fireplace behind him.

'Dinner,' says the Beast, proudly, tail flicking as he sits back. Graves thinks of those times Hecate presents him with dead mice, tail held high, as if to say, 'Aren't I clever, Percival?'

Graves shakes his head, stomach turning. 'I-I can't eat _this_.'

The Beast rears back and gives a great roar, canines flashing, blood shining on his fur, his teeth. Though he is rarely afraid, the sound chills him, and Graves covers his head, crouches, waiting for a blow from the Beast's large, clawed paw.

But it doesn't come and Graves slowly uncoils to see the Beast is curled in on himself, his paws over his head, sunk into his mane, a mirror of Graves's previous position.

Graves blinks. 'Um.'

'I'm sorry.' The Beast doesn't look up, voice muffled.

'Pardon?' Graves's head spins. The Beast is one of the most fearsome things he has seen in his life, but right now he seems like a scolded child.

'I'm sorry. I didn't know.' The Beast wipes across his face with a giant paw, claws retracted, and looks up, eyes glittering. Graves almost wants to laugh because he thinks the Beast might be on the verge of tears. And, yet, there is nothing comical about his despair. 

'It's fine.' Graves aims for reassuring, though that has never been one of his strong points.

'No, it's not.' The Beast sniffles.

Graves takes a tentative step toward the Beast, avoids looking at the ravaged deer. 'It is. We can just cook it.'

The Beast looks at him surprised, or maybe confused, but then his expression clears. 'I think I have a room for that,' the Beast says, and Graves thinks he might be smiling, long, sharp canines visible over the edge of his curled lip. 'And one for eating.'  


__

The dining room is as overgrown with vegetation as the rest of the building. Nature has come creeping in from all sides, reclaimed the castle as her domain. The Beast doesn't seem to mind, seems at home amongst the sprawling vines and crumbling walls of the dining room, where tarnished silverware, coated in dust, is laid out on a long mahogany table, the varnish cracking and peeling. It's dark, but there are candle stubs still sitting in candelabra, and they manage to light them so they can see as they sit down to eat.

Graves's dinner of tough, sinewy venison is not the best meal he's had, but it is better than not eating at all. He eats it off china, covered in spidery crazing, with his bare hands because the dull knife will not cut through the meat. In the end he had cooked it with magic, skinning and boning it as best he could – the Beast gone to fetch more water, Graves still not sure he wants the Beast to know he's a wizard – not too tricky without his wand. He hadn't trusted the dirt that caked the kitchen to use the stove, and was too tired to clean first. The Beast eats his raw, bloody, just as he had presented it to Graves. Graves tries not to watch.

His eyes keep sliding over to the large creature who is his strange companion, though. The Beast seems uncomfortable on the chair, shifting and fidgeting, and Graves suspects he'd rather be crouched over his portion of the deer on the floor, somewhere. He wonders how long he's been alone, if there are or ever were others like him, why such a creature lives in a great castle with furniture and books and candelabra and not in a cave. 

'You don't have to sit with me,' says Graves, as the Beast shifts again, ancient chair groaning beneath his weight.

But the Beast only ducks his head, shy, and says, 'I want to,' and continues to gnaw at the bloodied meat on the plate before him. The slick sound of flesh tearing from bone is sickening and Graves feels his dinner churning in his stomach. He looks away, swallows thickly around a chunk of venison, washing it down with water from a crystal goblet he'd wiped off with a dubious looking napkin.

He attempts to make conversation as they eat, but the Beast is by turns shy and surly, making communication difficult. There is so much he needs to know – what did the Beast mean when he said 'stay with me', where is this castle, what, exactly, is the Beast, so unlike any creature Graves has ever seen or heard of. 

'Have you always been here, alone?' Graves trails his fingers along the edge of his goblet, keeps his tone light and nonchalant.

The Beast's head whips up, brow furrowed. He looks at Graves for a long moment, and Graves doesn't look away. When he finally answers, it is with a gruff, 'Yes', and nothing more.

'OK,' says Graves and silence falls over them again. The candlelight plays over the Beast's sleek fur, shining, as he shifts in his chair. It looks very soft. He thinks of Hecate, again, when she deigns to let him pet her, curled up by his side, and has the oddest urge to run his hand along the Beast's paw, see if his fur is as soft as it looks. He shakes his head. He must still be exhausted from his ordeal, he reasons, though it's not the worst he's been through, and needs more sleep. 

But, first, another question weighs on his mind. 'When you...asked me to stay here. How long did you mean, exactly?'

'Forever, of course.' The Beast says as though it should have been obvious, as though it's not an unreasonable request.

Graves is about to protest but his eyes land on the Beast's sharp claws, thinks of the teeth that ripped through the deer. The Beast has only shown him kindness, seems more awkward than vicious, but, though he had just been thinking of petting him, he feels a lingering wariness. Best to wait it out, he thinks, see if the search party finds him, and so he only repeats, 'Forever. Of course.'  


__

After dinner, Graves is shown to a bedroom when he asks if there's somewhere he can sleep. A gilded mirror stands in an alcove with a dressing table, cobwebs tangled over both. Snaking vines, familiar to Percival now, cover the ceiling, twining around the pillars, their small peach coloured flowers giving off that sickly sweet scent that permeates the mansion. 

The ceiling is lower here, than in other rooms, but there are a great many latticed windows that would let in a lot of light during the day. More furs are on the floor, by the bed, which is piled with sagging pillows, covered in a silk bedspread. Tangling vines, that have grown through from the outside, cover the bedhead and Graves is certain he hears them rustle, wonders if it's a draught or some small critters living within them. He grimaces.

The room is large and would once have been plush, comfortable. This must be the master bedroom, he thinks, and wonders where the Beast sleeps. 

Dust puffs up around Graves as he sinks onto the bed. He coughs. The bed creaks ominously as he bounces to test it, but doesn't collapse, which he considers a win. Better than sleeping by the fireplace, again, at any rate. He needs a proper night's sleep, in a real bed, so he can work on getting home, tomorrow. He kicks off his shoes and is about to lie down when he notices The Beast is still watching him, from the foot of the bed, with glittering, expectant eyes, paws resting, clasped, in front of him. 

'I think I should go to sleep,' says Graves, but the Beast does not move. 'Good night, then?'

The Beast grunts and leaves, his mane swishing and tail flicking. Graves sighs, and gingerly lies down on his side, not getting under the covers. The musty scent of disuse threatens to overwhelm him so he turns to his back. He thinks of trying to clean the room with magic, wand or no, but he is too tired – it will only be his bed for a short while, he hopes – and he drifts into a deep, restful sleep.

Graves dreams he is walking by a brook, bordered by trees, lamenting his current situation when he comes upon a boy – no, a young man – sitting in the shade of a large beech. There is a book resting in his elegant hands, brows drawn together as he reads, but when Graves approaches he looks up. He is breathtakingly beautiful, with feline eyes, and a wide smile, that dimples his cheeks. The cut of his clothes is old-fashioned, but the billowing sleeves that end in tight ruffled cuffs, the breeches and buckled shoes don't seem out of place in the dream. It is Percival who, in his modern clothes, feels wrong.

The young man seems to be waiting for Graves for he reaches out a slender hand to him, which Graves takes in his own, and lets himself be pulled down to sit on the ground beside the beautiful man. His hand is warm and soft. Graves kisses it, noticing a pretty blush on the man's pale skin as he pulls away.

They sit side by side, arms looped together, hands clasped, basking in the dappled sunlight, a delicious cool breeze blowing over them. Graves is sure he's never felt so at ease.

'It's not quite so bad, here, is it?' asks the young man, leaning his head on Graves's shoulder. Graves doesn't know what he means, exactly, but he shakes his head and says, 'no,' fingers still twined with the young man's. He reaches with his free hand to brush a wavy tendril of black hair, escaped from the velvet ribbon at his nape, from his face, hand lingering over a sharp cheekbone, slipping down to cup a strong jaw. There is something about the young man that makes Graves want to take him into his arms, kiss him fiercely, and so he does. It feels startlingly real for a dream but Graves, who hasn't kissed anyone in far too long, falls into it with abandon. When he pulls away, the man's face is flushed pleasantly, dark pink lips shining, shy grin impossibly wider.

He ducks his head. 'Will you stay here with me, then?'

'Yes. Of course.' Graves kisses his neck above a ruffled collar, and the man sighs, happily.

He pulls back, still within Graves's reach, and looks up, eyes wide and serious, now. 'And will you save me?'

Before Graves can answer, he wakes up, suffocatingly warm despite not being under the covers, an immense sadness weighing on him. It is only the lingering confusion of the dream, he thinks, even as memories of the dream, and the enchanting young man, slip from his conscious mind.  


__

The Beast curls up in the nest of furs in his attic room, belly full and heart warm. His mind goes back over the last two days – watching over the man, Percival, on and off as he'd slept, the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought that the man might not wake up at all, his despair at Percival's reaction to the deer that had turned to something like hope as they sat and ate, together – and realises he doesn't remember the last time there was someone else here. Was there ever? There must have been, for why would he need so many rooms for only himself. 

He frowns. Memories stir just beneath the surface of his awareness, memories he can't grasp, just yet. The appearance of the man had conjured them up, somehow. He doesn't like it, though he likes having Percival here with him. Questions he's never pondered, or can't remember thinking of, tumble through his mind – does he, or did he ever, have a family? Are there others like him? Why are there so many rooms in his castle that he doesn't remember? And, most importantly, why is he always alone? 

He huffs, pulls the covers up over his head, and wills the questions, and the thoughts of the past, away. They're irrelevant, now. He won't be alone, anymore, with Percival to keep him company, he thinks, burrowing further into his cocoon of furs. Percival, sleeping not so far away, is a much more pleasant thing to contemplate, strange creature though he may be. The Beast must have seen a man before, to know what one was, but he doesn't remember. Somehow, he suspects that Percival is an exceptional man. He has a nice face, the Beast thinks, even without fur, and seems clever. He is certain they will have fun together. Yes, it will be brilliant, just what he's been waiting for. A friend, at last.  


__

In New York City, Hecate hisses as her human comes into the room. Her fur stands on end, back arched. There is something wrong about him. She creeps over to him when he doesn't seek her out for her usual greeting, but he merely looks down at her with cold, hard eyes.

'Hello, little one,' he says, a strange edge to his voice. He bends down and scoops her into his arms, squeezing, and Hecate struggles against him.

He doesn't smell right, doesn't feel right. Hecate hisses again, claws flying and he drops her. She lands on her feet, naturally, and skitters off to hide under a bureau, yellow eyes peering out, until he goes away. He laughs, a hollow sound, not at all like his usual laugh which is gruff but warm, and leaves her where she is. Yes, she thinks, still cowering. Something is very wrong with Percival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) Feel free to [find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> I've veered a little from my original plan (it started to get too complicated) but it should still gel with chapter one :)
> 
> Also, I felt like Hecate needed an appearance because Graves keeps thinking about her.


	3. here i dreamt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos, so far! It's very much appreciated. Keeps me writing. :)
> 
> Un-beta'd, because I'm impatient.

Graves spends his days exploring the castle and finds the whole structure is slowly decaying, fallen into disrepair. Some rooms are better preserved than others, and not a few seem to have been torn apart in a rage. The grounds have fared no better in the years – decades? Centuries? - since they were left to ruin. He begins to see a strange beauty in it all, though. The stark wilderness encroaching on the imposing structure seems the perfect balance of nature and man-made. It suits the Beast.

Sometimes, the Beast follows him, padding softly behind, looking around like someone who visited a place long ago and comes back many years later, pointing at tapestries and paintings, saying 'oh, I remember this' or 'was that there before?' Sometimes he will pick something up, ask Graves what he thinks of it. It's charming, in a way, and he grows less fearsome as they traverse the castle and its grounds, together.

Graves learns that the Beast's amnesia extends beyond the question of a name: he seems utterly unable to recall anything about his life beyond years of living alone, hunting, eating, prowling the decaying castle. Snatches come back to him as they explore, mostly associated with the rooms or the furniture in them, but the memories are vague and Graves feels the Beast's mounting frustration at not being able to bring them out fully.

As they are walking outside, by a frozen brook that looks eerily familiar, Graves asks, 'How long have you lived here?' He pauses to look at a tree stump. Its breadth, its situation, is familiar, too, and he frowns.

The Beast shrugs, looks away. 'I'm really not sure. It feels like I've always been here, though.'

Graves nods, sensing the Beast's discomfort at yet another question he cannot answer, and they continue their walk. He can't shake the odd feeling of deja vu, but then the Beast lopes ahead, spurred by the promise of a rose garden he remembers, and Graves forgets about the brook and the tree stump in his companion's excitement.

Some rooms seem to make the Beast sad or angry so he retreats to wherever he goes when he's not with Graves. Graves takes the opportunity to explore more fully, rifling through drawers and cabinets for clues as to the castle's original ownership and, more importantly, its location. He finds few personal possessions, as though they have all been purged, and there are some maps that look promising but none have the castle's location marked. Its discouraging but he can't give up.

Days stretch on, and his walks around the grounds and the castle are proving less than illuminating. He sets out, a fur wrapped around his shoulders, to explore the forest he came through on that first night. It is doubtful it will help, but endless rooms of dusty furniture are getting under his skin. 

He makes it to the edge of the forest, beyond the clearing, but when he gets there he forgets why he is outside and turns back, makes it all the way to the castle doors before he remembers he'd wanted to walk through the forest. This happens three times before he realises there is some kind of magic at work, compelling him to come back to the castle.

He stomps through the courtyard, up the flower filled stairs, until he finds the Beast in a small attic room. It's cramped but, unlike the rest of the castle, it is tidy. The Beast startles at the intrusion.

'What's going on?' Graves demands.

The Beast blinks, a frown creasing his brow.

'Why can't I go through the forest?'

'You want to leave?'

Guilt surges through Graves at the desperate tone of the Beast's voice, though he doesn't know, or doesn't want to know, why. He shakes his head. 'I just wanted to look around. But I can't get past the edge of the forest. Something's stopping me.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

Graves growls in frustration, turns on the spot, leaving the Beast bewildered, and goes back to the forest. If the Beast will not – or, a kinder voice in his mind says, cannot – give any answers, he will figure it out himself. 

But, as he reaches the ghostly trees, wary of when he will forget his intention and turn back, the air around him sighs, a melancholy sound, and he finds he is able to walk into the forest. He frowns and focusses all his attention on detecting any lingering magic but he feels nothing. This time, he walks back to the castle of his own volition.

On the eleventh day, he climbs to the top of the castle, walking the rampart. An icy wind chills him as he looks over the parapet to see if there are nearby towns, or other houses, he could walk to and get back home from, but there is only the white stretch of the snow blanketed forest beyond the castle grounds. He sighs, turns and slumps back against the stone wall. It's seeming less likely that he will be found, and walking back on foot is not an option he wants to consider, yet. The castle is so far from anything that he would likely die of exposure, even with heating charms. Wandless apparating is near unheard of, something he's never attempted, and not knowing his exact location makes it especially dangerous, so that's out, too. He is stuck here, it seems.

Deep inside, there is a small part of him that almost doesn't mind.

__

Every night, the beautiful sad-eyed young man comes to Graves in his dreams. He begins to look forward to the dreams too much, eager to lay his head to rest. He airs the pillows and bedspread, cleans out the room, turns the mattress, making it as comfortable as he can.

One night, they dance together across a gilded ballroom, dressed in old-fashioned finery, an unseen orchestra playing sweet, haunting music. The young man laughs, head thrown back, as Graves twirls him under his arm, bringing him back closer than he should for this kind of dance. The small, pleased smile he gets in return tells Graves his black-haired boy doesn't mind.

Another night, in the shade of the beech tree, they eat overripe fruit, juice dripping down their chins. Graves leans in and licks the trail of juice from the young man's face, eliciting a gasp and a giggle. He kisses him, sticky, and the young man leans into it, kissing back with fervour before he pulls away, breathless. His mouth is shining with saliva and cherry juice.

'You didn't answer me.' The young man says, peeking at Graves from under long lashes.

Graves kisses his jaw, can't stop kissing and touching this man. 'About what?'

'Will you save me?' He is all earnestness and wide-eyed innocence and Graves's chest tightens as he answers, 'I don't know how.'

The man sighs, a mysterious smile quirking his lips. 'That's just what you think,' he says, but Graves doesn't get a chance to ask what he means before he's being dragged into another cherry sweet kiss, all forgotten but the solid warmth of the man in his arms.

In dreams, they walk together hand in hand, they kiss until his lungs ache, they dance and laugh and talk for hours. They do not make love, though Graves wants to, desperately. And every night the man asks Graves if he will save him, and every night Graves answers that he does not know how.

He tries not to think of how easy it has been to make a connection with this dream man, when he spends so much time creating distance between himself and those he knows in his waking hours. Sometimes, he is convinced the man is real, must exist beyond the realm of dreams – it all feels too real – but then he feels foolish. He will be home soon enough, he tells himself as he rolls onto his side, hugging his pillow, and he can leave this folly behind, ignoring the tug of his heart to think of not seeing the man again. For now, it is a comfort in a strange place. That's all.

__

The Beast twitches in his sleep, paws resting beneath his head. He dreams of a cruel woman who berates him, of two little girls whose faces he can't see, of being consumed by a rage so great he is no longer himself, and finally of being held in tender arms, kissed and petted. As he sleeps, he distantly wonders if these are more memories returning to him, but when he wakes, he remembers nothing.

__

One night, the young man doesn't come to Graves and, instead, he dreams of a much younger boy. He thinks it is his young man as a child, the same dark hair and eyes, the same pale skin, but the melancholy of his young man is not present in the child. The boy is happy and laughing, running through a forest. Graves thinks he is playing a game of some sort. There is a woman there, too. She radiates love, her long black hair flowing out behind her as she runs after the boy, arms spread, waiting to catch him, her simple blue gown soiled around the hem by the dirt she kicks up. In a breathy, singsong voice she calls out to the boy but the name flies away on the wind and Graves can't catch it. She is breathtaking and so alive. Until she isn't. Taken from the boy swiftly and cruelly. Graves feels the anguish of the boy's loss so keenly that he wakes weeping, crying for the first time in many years.

__

The next morning he is in the library, looking through the drawers of the desk, again, when he feels something stuck at the back. He pulls the drawer out, entirely, and finds a portrait miniature. His heart thuds when he recognises the face of the woman from his dream. She smiles at him from the small frame, her hair blowing in a breeze. He frowns. More magic. He'd put aside his suspicions after the strange incident with the forest but what is a magical portrait doing here? Does it belong to the young man from his dreams? Is he, or was he, in the castle somewhere? Graves is certain he would have noticed the signs of another human living here in his explorations, but if he were secreted somewhere, being held against his will- but, no. The Beast may have asked Graves to stay forever, but he wouldn't hold anyone captive, he is sure.

The Beast pads into the room as he is turning the portrait over in his hands. Graves looks up. 'Is there anyone else living here?'

'No, just us.' 

Graves sits and frowns down at the woman in the silver frame. The portrait might just be a coincidence, he supposes. Perhaps he'd seen it that first fevered day and had forgotten until it slipped into the fantasy his subconscious had concocted for him. Or maybe the man lived here, many years ago – his clothes looked as old as the castle – maybe his ghost visited Graves while he slept. He hadn't heard of such a thing but he'd never heard of anything like the Beast, before, either.

'Why?' Asks the Beast after a few minutes of silence. 

'I dreamed of this woman,' Graves says, seeing no reason for lying, holding his hand out with the portrait resting in his palm. The Beast peers at it curiously and then he growls, eyes narrowing, and swipes the portrait from his hands. He clutches it to his chest. His claws scrape over Graves's flesh as he takes it, leaving four thin gashes across his palm. Graves stares at his bleeding hand, still stretched before him, unblinking.

The Beast's face clears and morphs into horror at what he's done when he sees blood dripping from Graves's hand.

'I'm so sorry,' he says, voice small and wavering.

'It's OK,' says Graves, heart hammering. He hadn't expected that reaction. 

Does the portrait hold some forgotten meaning for the Beast, then? Did he know this woman? If it were an isolated incident, Graves could brush it aside, but with this, the forest, the dreams and the mere existence of the Beast, he suspects some strange magic is at work. It all adds up to something, he knows it must, but he can't figure it out, not with his stinging hand, the ache inside that either the young man exists, and is waiting for him, calling out to him in his dreams, or it's a fancy his mind has conjured. That thought, that the young man is not real, not even a ghost, hurts more than the throbbing wound on his palm. 

'Let me look,' the Beast says, portrait forgotten. He kneels before the chair, shaking paw extended to Graves who gently rests his injured hand in the proffered paw. The Beast whimpers when he sees the slashes across Graves's palm. He apologises, again, tears falling.

'It's OK. You didn't mean to.' Graves knows this is true as he says it, the Beast would never hurt him on purpose. He rests his uninjured hand on his shoulder – fur so soft beneath his fingers – and wonders why it's so important to give the Beast this comfort.

'I-it's not OK,' The Beast says as he brings Graves's hand to his face. Graves wonders what he's going to do and is surprised when the Beast's velvety tongue swipes across his palm, licking the blood away. Well, he supposes, what else would a Beast do?

'Uh, thank-you,' he says, hand still cradled in a large paw. It wasn't as disgusting as it should be, he thinks, and, though he appreciates the gesture, he really needs to disinfect and bandage the wound. Before he can ask if there are herbs and clean linen he can use, though, The Beast sinks further, hugging Graves's calves, head resting on his knees. He whispers he's sorry, over and over, and Graves, completely dumbfounded, tentatively strokes his hand over the Beast's mane and tells him it's OK.

__

It is a few days after the Beast cut Percival's hand, something he has lost much sleep over, when he finds the man in the library. He is by the ladder, looking up at the top shelves, face lit by the warm glow of the fire. He must want a book from up there and the Beast is about to call out, warn him not to use the ladder because it will break and he will fall, and that would be awful, when Percival raises an arm and a book slides out of the shelf, gently floating down to his waiting hand.

The Beast gasps – the sight is unusual, of course, but something about it tugs at him, familiar, just as he had known Percival was a man without ever remembering meeting one – and Percival turns to him, book still in hand, eyebrows raised. 

'Ah,' he says.

The Beast approaches Percival slowly, wary of alarming him after what he did to his hand. But, still, he is excited and awed by the display, and asks, 'How did you do that?'

'I'm a wizard,' says Percival and the Beast tilts his head. Percival adds, 'I can do magic.'

'Magic,' the Beast repeats, heart beating a little faster, staring at Percival's hands. His stomach tightens, and he feels hot with shame, when he sees the bandage wrapped around one.

'It's easier to do with a wand, but mine broke.' His mouth turns down as he says this. The Beast thinks he must be sad about his wand, which makes the Beast sad in turn, but he doesn't know what a wand is, and frowns. 

Percival waves his hand, says, 'Never mind.' He pauses, looks at the Beast, eyes drifting down to his toes and back to meet his eyes. The Beast isn't sure what the look on his face means. 'You know, you must be magic, too. In some way.'

'Me?' Percival can't be serious. There's nothing magic about him. There couldn't be.

'Yes. Well. You're not like anything I've ever met. No-Maj, that is non-magical, um, creatures don't talk.' 

'Oh.'

'You're, uh, quite remarkable.'

But the Beast barely registers the compliment, his head pounding along with his thundering heart, mind whirling with something that feels like panic. A voice he doesn't recognise yells that magic is bad, unnatural and he covers his ears, though the voice is in his head. It must be wrong. Percival isn't bad, but the Beast is for hurting him, suspects he has a habit of hurting those around him, though he's not sure where that idea comes from. Dimly, he realises Percival is talking, again. The man's voice brings him back to the present, heart slowing. 'P-pardon?'

'I said, are you OK?'

The Beast swallows and nods. 'Yes'.

Percival frowns but only says, 'Would you like to see some more magic?' 

The Beast smiles, then, shy. He nods eagerly, 'yes, please,' and forgets all about his confusion, the panic and the strange feeling deep within him, as he watches Percival transform crumbling leaves of paper into tiny birds, delighted as they dip and wheel through the air.

__

They dine together every evening, and the Beast seems to enjoy this farce – man and beast breaking bread, two lonesome creatures dining in a rundown castle, in the middle of nowhere – that becomes increasingly less bizarre, almost natural to Graves as the days pass by. They eat rabbits and other small animals the Beast catches, cooked by Percival with herbs he finds miraculously flourishing in one of the gardens. He is glad of an old lover who took great pleasure in cooking and even more in teaching him. The Beast mostly eats his raw, but tries the cooked meat and enjoys it well enough. When Percival discovers a wine cellar, still fully stocked, he adds that to his ingredients and drinks some with his dinners, as well.

After dinner, Graves will retreat to the library and read one of the still intact books. He had started his evenings planning how to get back home, but the plans fall by the wayside the more fruitless they prove. His suspicion wanes along with them, and he wonders if he's getting too used to his situation. He still wants to puzzle out the strange magic at play, but he even thinks less of that as the days pass by.

One evening, the Beast joins him, peering curiously over his shoulder at the book. Graves smiles. 'Would you like me to read out loud?'

The Beast nods, fervently, 'Yes please,' and settles by the fire, keeping a distance between them. He's been more wary, uncertain around Graves since he cut his hand and Graves makes an effort to set him at ease. Despite himself, Graves has grown truly fond of the Beast. He feels a connection growing through their mutual loneliness and years of isolation. His, self-imposed, the Beast's, a matter of circumstance. 

He reads from a book of fairy tales he'd picked, feeling uncharacteristically whimsical, reciting the story of a peasant girl who goes to live in an enchanted castle with a white bear in exchange for providing her family with great wealth. The Beast listens attentively, delighted and engrossed.

Soon, it becomes their evening ritual; Graves reads history books, fairy tales, Shakespeare, myths and legends. The Beast enjoys stories with magic, the most, fascinated by them. He interjects, voice soft in the large room, asking Graves questions, if the story matches up with real magic. Graves finds he enjoys telling the Beast about the magical world, though sometimes his answers make the Beast uncomfortable, unsettling something long forgotten, he suspects, and he quickly turns their attention back to the story for the night.

One night, worn out and plagued by a headache, Graves finds it harder to read by the dim light of the fire, squinting at the words on the page. The Beast must notice, for he says, 'Are you unwell?'

'Just a headache. I wish I had my glasses.' He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing.

'I could read tonight,' the Beast suggests, already reaching for the book, which Graves gives over with surprise. 'You can read?'

'Yes.' The Beast flicks through the pages, seeming to search for a different story to read. 

Graves huffs. 'Why didn't you say so before.'

'You didn't ask,' says the Beast and, ducking his head, adds, 'and I like listening to your voice.'

Graves blinks, face flushing slightly, which he blames on the heat of the fire, and says, 'Well, then.'

As the Beast reads, Graves lets his eyes drift shut, rolls his shoulders and neck. The Beast has a pleasant voice, though his words are still halting and uncertain at times. Without thinking, Graves's head drifts to rest on the Beast's shoulder, snuggling against his soft fur. When the Beast stutters over his words, Graves's eyes snap open, face burning. He lifts his head to apologise but the Beast has a small, happy smile on his face, so he rests back against his shoulder, and lets the low rumble of the Beast's voice wash over him.

__

Graves rests his hand on a silver mirror, looking out the windows of his room at the starry night. It's beautiful and he is almost content, could be happy to stay here gazing at the inky sky, but then he thinks of home. If only he knew what is happening at MACUSA, how Hecate is without him. Has someone gone to his apartment to make sure she's OK? Does anyone even know he has a cat? He can't remember. He sighs, and sits, hand idly curling around the mirror's ornate handle.

If he picked up the mirror and looked into it, he probably wouldn't be surprised to see his own face looking back at him. But he might be surprised if he took in the crisp shirt and neat tie that didn't reflect his own dishevelled state. He would definitely be surprised if he looked beyond his face, to see, not the master bedroom of a rundown castle, but his office at MACUSA, behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm picturing [Lisa Marie in _Sleepy Hollow_ as the woman](http://kissthemgoodbye.net/movie/displayimage.php?album=293&pid=629944#top_display_media) in the dream.
> 
> The story Graves reads is [“East of the Sun and West of the Moon”](http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/eastsunwestmoon/).
> 
> The chapter title is taken from/inspired by 'Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect' by The Decemberists.
> 
> And I'm glad so many of you liked Hecate by the way.
> 
> Feel free to [find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/). :)


	4. mirrors, discoveries, promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took longer to post. The story keeps changing on me. But the chapter is longer this time! (About 4k). Un-beta'd as per usual.
> 
> I really appreciate all the comments and kudos so far. Thanks, everyone :)

Shafts of grey dusk light fall through the library window, spilling onto the floor where The Beast sits, a book of fairy tales spread in front of him. He has read all of them ten, twenty, thirty times, but finds them no less engrossing than the first time his eyes hungrily pored over the faded black lettering. Tales of evil overcome, magical transformations, love and adventure call to him from the musty pages, awakening something deep inside. A longing, a hunger greater than he's ever known.

Even as he reads, his mind turns to Percival. He imagines the man as a prince in one of the fairy tales on the pages before him, come to rescue the Beast from years of solitude. Some part of him thinks he may feel the way the princesses do about the princes, which is surprising, frightening and a little wonderful. He wonders if Percival will stay here, forever, if they could live happily ever after. If a man could love a beast. He sighs.

A log cracks and spits in the fireplace and the Beast looks over to where Percival sits beside it, slumped in a wingback chair, sleeping soundly. He is snoring lightly, head lolled to the side, but he looks at peace. Warmth pours into the Beast as he regards the man, as though he were beside the fire himself, and not sitting by the draughty window.

He turns away, back to the book. Beside it is the small portrait Percival had found, a dark haired woman smiling up at him from within the frame. She's beautiful and looking at her makes the Beast's chest ache. He knows that he loved her and that she is dead. He's remembered a lot more since Percival found the portrait – though he's not told Percival – but still can't make enough sense of the memories that have returned. They're all of humans, for one thing, nothing, no one, like him. He doesn't remember the woman in the portrait, beyond the ache for her, but he remembers another woman who is always cruel. 

He has a memory of calling her mother, but doesn't know how that can be, and, though he calls her this, it doesn't ring true. She doesn't feel like a mother. The woman in the portrait, though, perhaps. But could a human woman – a witch, Percival had told him – be a beast's mother? His stomach churns at the thought, some inkling that something is not right, has not been right for longer than he can remember. Whenever a new memory surfaces he tries to push it away, wanting only to think of the present, of Percival, and whatever future they could have together. 

Percival murmurs in his sleep, turning into himself, snapping the Beast out of his musing. The coat the man has used as a blanket slips down, pools in his lap, as he moves. The Beast pads over quietly, so as to not disturb him, and pulls the coat back up, tucking it around his shoulders. He smoothes some stray hairs back with his paw, careful to keep his claws sheathed, and Percival hums, seemingly pleased. The Beast smiles, happy to bring any comfort to the man, and turns to leave him to his rest, then decides he will sleep by the fire, at Percival's feet, tonight. Perhaps the nearness of the man will ward off the unpleasant memories that plague him.

__

'I am real, Percival,' says the young man, fingers brushing through Graves's hair. There's something familiar in how he says his name. 'I know you've been thinking you've just dreamed me up. But you haven't.'

'Oh?' Graves feels languid, head resting in the young man's lap as they sit beneath the same beech tree that often shades them in Graves's dreams. A breeze stirs the leaves, kissing Graves's warm skin. He looks up to see it catch the stray tendrils of his young man's hair. 

'And I'm not a ghost, either.' The young man smiles, hand coming to rest on Graves's chest, right over his heart. 

Graves sits up and turns so he can look the young man in the eye, clasp his face in his hands. 'Then where are you?'

'Oh, my love. You're so clever but you must learn to look beyond the surface.' The man smiles again, places a hand over Graves's where it rests on his cheek.

Graves frowns. 'I don't understand.'

A sigh, soft as the breeze that still caresses them. The young man kisses Graves's hand, not meeting his eyes.

'How can I save you if I can't find you?' Graves presses.

The young man tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, then looks up with clear, golden eyes. 'Love me.'

__

The words 'love me' echo in Graves's mind, troubling him for days after the dream. Love is not something he has thought of in a long while, feeling himself immune from its lure. In the dreams, though, Graves can easily believe himself in love. But if he were, wouldn't the young man be saved, already? And what does he need to be saved from? In the dreams, Graves never asks, doesn't feel the need to, but in his waking hours the question plagues him.

He is thinking of this as he walks through a salon he has rarely entered, doesn't like the atmosphere in the room. There is the feeling of death here. The room is destroyed, tapestries and fine upholstered furniture slashed viciously. A frame that holds the tattered remains of, possibly, a family portrait has had the same treatment. He recognises the claw marks, for the same ones had graced his hand, linger still in thin silver scars, his wandless healing spell imperfect and leaving traces of the wound. He wonders what could have enraged the Beast so, even though the evidence of the creature's sometimes quick temper is there on his hand. The Beast has become so human in his time here that Graves sometimes forgets he's not. 

He rights an overturned ottoman and sits, head in his hands. He realises he's stopped looking for a way home, almost completely, that his early efforts were half-hearted at best. It's not that he wants to shirk his responsibilities, he thinks, work is his life, but that a heretofore unknown desire to not be alone has dictated his actions. But could he just stay here, forever, like the Beast had asked?

'P-percival?'

The Beast is hovering in the doorway; he won't come in this room, is frightened of it. The first time Graves had come across it, the Beast was with him and he'd trembled with fear.  
'Yes?'

'It's dinner time.'

'I'm coming,' Graves says, and leaves with the Beast who gives the room one last wary look before following him to the kitchen.

__

There is a large, shadowed figure at the foot of Graves's bed. It is barely discernible from the gloom of night, silvery moonlight too weak to penetrate the room that far, but he knows it's shape well, now. He doesn't startle like he would have when he first arrived at the castle, but pushes himself up, sleepily rubbing an eye. 'Is everything OK?'

'I had a dream. A...bad one,' says the Beast, fiddling with the edge of the silk quilt. He seems, again, like a small child, all innocence and uncertainty.

Graves smiles. 'Do you want to stay in here with me, tonight?' 

The Beast nods and moves towards the bed, so Graves shifts over, sheets rustling beneath him. But, instead of sitting beside Graves like he'd expected, the Beast settles onto the floor, curling up, head pillowed on his arms. Graves leans over the edge of the bed, steadying himself on the mattress. 'You don't have to stay on the floor.'

The Beast shrugs. 'I always sleep on the floor.' 

Graves frowns, but says, 'Okay. But if you want to come up here...you can.' He feels awkward, and if he were the kind to blush, he's sure he would be. But he's a grown man, a powerful wizard, and not prone to blushing. He clears his throat. 'Do you want to sleep? Or we could talk?' 

The Beast doesn't answer, immediately, and as the silence stretches out, Graves wonders if he's already fallen asleep. But, no, he is gazing up with his clear, dark eyes, and eventually he answers, 'Talk, please.'

'What about?' He doubts the Beast will want to talk about his dream, is always reticent to share anything upsetting, but leaves the question open, just in case.

The Beast tilts his head and says, quietly, 'Tell me about you.'

'OK, let's see...'

Graves tells the Beast of his life in New York, realising, not for the first time, that most of it is consumed by work – even his social engagements are work related – but if the Beast notices, he doesn't say anything. He is mostly quiet, from his place on the floor, sometimes asking a question, never offering any of his own stories in return, seems content to only listen. And this, too, becomes one of their nightly rituals, like reading by the firelight. The Beast drags his bedding down from his attic room, making himself a nest of furs by the bed, where he listens attentively as Graves's voice fills the room. 

They often talk into the small hours of the morning and Graves finds, for once, it is not uncomfortable to talk about himself. In fact, he rather enjoys relating tales of his training, working his way up at MACUSA, his missions, the other Aurors – the Beast particularly likes hearing about Tina Goldstein – spinning them as he does the fairy tales and myths he reads from the musty books in the library. He skirts his personal life, what little of it there has been, leaving any tales of love and romance for the fictional.

Hecate is as close as Graves gets to personal stories, guilt settling in his stomach at the thought of her, and the Beast becomes utterly enchanted by the idea of a pet. He tries to keep the rabbits he used to catch for dinner, but they are all too frightened, seeing only a predator, ears back, legs thumping, so he lets them go with a longing sigh.

As the nights pass, the Beast moves from the floor to beside Graves on the bed. It should be strange, he thinks, but it is mostly nice to have someone warm near him, again. He can't remember the last time he slept beside someone else. The bed is large, though not as large as the bed in his New York apartment, but he is still surprised they fit on it comfortably. They don't have to huddle together but he does wake one morning with the Beast's soft paw cradled between his hands as they lie facing each other.

One night, after Graves has told the Beast of another perilous mission, the Beast asks, 'Do you miss them – your friends?'

Graves shifts onto his back, hands tucked beneath his head, looking up at the vine covered ceiling. 'Ah, I wouldn't call them friends, exactly. But, I suppose I am worried. I'd like to know if everything is OK at MACUSA.'

The Beast goes quiet after this, a frown creasing his brow, so Graves says, 'Did I ever tell you about the time I had to go undercover in a niffler smuggling ring?'

__

'I have a way for you to see if your...friends are well,' The Beast says the next day as they are clearing out a small garden, the No-Maj way, digging out dead plants and weeds, salvaging what they can. The smell of freshly turned soil hangs pleasantly in the air.

Graves stops, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the brisk weather, wipes a hand over his forehead. 'What do you mean?'

'There's a mirror, somewhere. I'm not sure where, exactly. But it will help. My...' he trails off, uncertain, 'A woman gave it to me. A long time ago.'

'A woman?' Graves forgets about the mirror for a moment as he studies the Beast's face. 'You're remembering.'

The Beast nods, but doesn't look happy at the prospect of his returning memories. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Graves stands and wipes off his hands on his trousers. He never used to like getting dirty, though it sometimes came with the job in his early years as an Auror. 'What does the mirror look like?'

The Beast describes the mirror and Graves realises it's the one that sits on the dressing table in his room, and they leave their gardening. 'How will this help me see if my colleagues are OK?' He asks, staring down at the mirror, running a finger along its edge.

'Pick it up and think of them,' the Beast urges.

Graves frowns but the Beast seems earnest, so he does as instructed. The mirror's handle is cool as he wraps his hand around it and he holds it at arm's length, thinking of his colleagues. He doesn't drop the mirror when his own reflection fades, morphs into another picture, but it's a near thing. Ridiculous, he thinks, that he should be shocked by a magic object. He shakes himself and watches the scene unfolding before him, too engrossed to wonder why the Beast possesses such a thing. 

The MACUSA Headquarters come into focus, and he sees Picquery talking to Goldstein, in the hallway near his office. Tina looks nervous, but determined, even in the face of Picquery's legendary stare and Graves smiles. But his blood runs cold as they enter his office and, behind his antique mahogany desk, there he sits, in a crisp three piece suit he never bought. It's not the past, and somehow he knows it's not the future; this is happening in this very moment. Now he knows why no search team ever found him – no one was looking. Why would they when, to them, he never left?

The Beast peers over his shoulder. 'Oh. It's another you.'

Graves almost laughs at the Beast's curious, innocent tone, but a heavy weight has settled in his stomach and he can barely manage a grunt in acknowledgement.

The Beast tentatively rests a paw on his shoulder. 'Is something wrong?'

'That's not another me. It's someone pretending to be me.' His voice is cold, hard, as he bites out the words.

'I don't understand.'

'I have to go back,' says Graves, finally tearing his eyes away from this imposter in the magic mirror. He lets it clatter onto the dressing table.

'You're leaving?' The Beast asks, voice quiet and incredulous.

'I have to.' Graves misses the stricken look on the Beast's face. 'I should start preparing,' he says, pacing, sick to his stomach at the thought of someone pretending to be him.

'No. You can't go.' The Beast roars, but it is a pitiful sound. Graves reaches out to comfort him, but the Beast shirks his touch, eyes flashing. The air crackles and Graves feels dizzied. He stumbles, upsetting the vanity set as he braces himself against the table. 'I don't have a choice! This person is probably dangerous.'

The Beast swipes out and knocks over a candelabra, sending it crashing to the floor. 'You-you promised you'd stay,' he says, but he barely seems to see Graves.

'You left me little choice but to promise!' Graves yells, immediately regretting it. He crosses his arms, takes a deep breath. He mutters, 'I'm sorry,' looking at the floor.

The Beast lets out a keening noise and falls to his knees. 'Please don't leave me.' Tears glitter in his eyes and his voice quivers. He sags, bowing his head.

The atmosphere settles and Graves sits on the stool by the dressing table, heavily, deflated. His head hurts and his heart aches. He turns away from the sobbing form in front of him. 'I promise I'll come back. But I have to fix this.'

The Beast sniffles, wipes at his eyes. 'Couldn't I come with you?'

'It wouldn't be safe.' Graves huffs. The thought of the Beast in New York is momentarily amusing – the Beast strolling through Central Park, lunching at the Plaza Hotel, taking in a show at Carnegie Hall – but quickly becomes terrifying as he wonders what would become of him if the wizarding world discovered his existence.

A whimper works its way out of the Beast's throat. 'Because I yelled at you? A-and hurt your hand that time?'

Graves smiles, but there is little mirth in it. He settles a hand on the Beast's mane, softly stroking. 'I meant it wouldn't be safe for you.'

'Oh.' The Beast doesn't ask why, just pushes into Graves's hand, trembling, still kneeling before him. 'I-I'm sorry I got angry.'

'It's OK.' Graves sighs. 'I'm sorry I have to leave you. If I can find a way to get back. I don't even know where I am.'

The Beast shuffles, seems to be considering something. 'I-I think I can remember where the castle is. If you find one of those maps.' He looks contrite.

They lay out one of the large maps Graves had discovered early in his explorations of the castle on the desk in the library. It's old, only shows a small region but the colours and lines are still crisp, a beautiful work of art, really. Graves traces the line of a river, like a vein, as he watches the Beast studying the map intently, before he finally points with one sharp claw. 'There'.

'You're sure?'

Graves waves his hand over the map at a nod, a big black 'X' appearing where the Beast had pointed. His companion is quiet throughout all of this and, despite the Beast's earlier outburst, Graves feels like leaving is a deep betrayal of what has grown between them. Their friendship, which he cherishes deeply.

'I have to go. I can't let whoever this is...' he trails off, words falling empty, dying on his tongue.

The Beast still seems turned inwards, either from shame or hurt, or both, but he says, 'I know.'

'I will come back.' 

The Beast turns away, shoulders hunched, leaving Graves to see to his hasty preparations for his travels, alone.

He barely spares a thought for his clothes, mutters the same quick cleaning spell he's been using to keep himself fresh in the weeks – no, months? It feels like a lifetime – he's been here, often washing with water he helps the Beast bring in from the stream. His clothes, his shaggy hair, the beard he's let grow – he never did like shaving charms – don't matter. The quicker he leaves, reveals the imposter, and sets things right, the quicker he can come back. He ignores the voice that asks how returning here will ever be possible and shrugs his coat on.

Graves hefts the satchel he'd transfigured from a tasselled cushion cover onto his shoulder and turns to the Beast. 'Time to go.' He takes one last look at the library, the place where his friendship with the Beast blossomed, and sighs.

'Yes,' says The Beast but puts a paw on Graves's shoulder, stopping him. In the other paw is a single red rose, which he hands to Graves, who can only stare at it dumbfounded. 'Um.'

'Promise you'll return before the last petal wilts.'

'Oh.' Graves was not expecting the Beast to say that. 'Why?'

The Beast shakes his head, mane flicking. 'Will you promise?'

Graves frowns, and tucks the rose away in his coat. 'OK, sure.'

The Beast gives him a small, sad smile and they set out together, walking to the edge of the forest where they stop, standing in silence. A strange urge overcomes Graves, and he practically flings himself into the Beast's arms, surprised at how tightly he is hugging his friend. The Beast hugs back just as tight, nearly lifting Graves off the ground. The scent of earth and smoke surrounds him, his fingers sinking into the soft fur at the Beast's nape. Too soon they part, and Graves reluctantly makes his way into the forest. 

He turns back, briefly, sees the Beast still standing there, forlorn - 'I'll see you soon. I promise.' - and then he walks away on legs that feel as heavy as his heart.

__

The warmth of Percival in his arms fades quickly as The Beast retreats to the castle, unable to watch his friend walk away. He walks slowly, knowing it will feel emptier than it ever has without him. Years of solitude are one burden to bear, but returning to solitude after having known the bliss of a true friend is quite another thing.

__

When Graves had looked out from the castle's rampart, all those weeks ago, he'd only seen snow and forest. But, on the map folded carefully and stowed in his coat pocket, next to his broken wand, there is a town not all that far away from the castle. As he makes his way toward what is just a tiny dot on the map, boots crunching through the undergrowth, he can only hope it is still there.

It takes him two full days to arrive at the town – he doesn't want to apparate, not knowing where he'd end up, if he'd expose No-Maj's to magic, so he walks – which he finds, miraculously, still inhabited. It's small, with a main street that takes five minutes to walk down, but there are people here and that's enough. He is certain he alarms most of the locals who are more than happy to get this wild looking man out of their town as soon as possible, giving him more food to see him on his way as Stanley, a farmer, and the only local who has an automobile – a Ford Model TT, only a year old, Stanley told him, proudly patting the hood – offers him a ride to the next town.

From there he gets on a bus, ticket paid for with No-Maj money he'd transfigured from a pilfered newspaper, and is finally on his way back to New York City, rattling along dirt roads, trying to ignore the ache at the thought of leaving the Beast and his castle behind.

It should be absurd to feel guilt and sadness at leaving, but the thought of the Beast being alone again, of being without his company in turn makes it hard to breathe. It hits him that the Beast is the only friend he's had in a long time, his best friend, really. He sighs and turns to look out the foggy bus window, the scenery passing by in a blur. The Beast couldn't have come with him and he couldn't stay at the castle. Not while someone else is wearing his face.

__

'Madame President!' A breathless Auror nearly runs into Seraphina Picquery as she is on her way to a meeting, heels clacking over marble floors. 'There's a commotion in Director Graves's office.'

Picquery knows her staff are too intimidated by her to interrupt her if it isn't important, so she apparates to Percival's office where she is confronted by the scene of not one, but two Percivals, staring each other down. Unflappable at the worst of times, her only external reaction is a slight tightening of her mouth. 

One Percival is dressed in his usual impeccable attire, the other looks rather worse for wear in soiled clothes, sporting a beard. The impeccably dressed one raises his wand – and, she thinks, dread building, that doesn't look like Percival's wand – and calmly utters 'Avada...' before she raises her own wand, quick as a whip, and yells 'Expelliarmus!' before he can finish the Unforgivable curse.

'What are you doing?' she yells at the well-dressed Percival who, she now suspects, might not be Percival at all. She's barely seen him in months, let alone his wand, or any other clues he may be someone else. 'An Unforgivable?'

'Madame President,' - and being addressed such is enough to give her pause - 'I'm glad you're here.' There is a cruel smirk on this man's face, so unlike her oldest friend. He waves an elegant hand towards the dishevelled Percival. 'This man is an imposter.'

'No,' she says, voice like ice. 'He's not.'

His eyes widen but before he can react, she throws an Incarcerous spell at him, deciding she can deal with his real identity later, and turns to the shabby Percival. 'Mercy Lewis, Percival, is that you?'

Percival nods. 'Glad you finally noticed, Seraphina.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close! This was originally planned as five chapters but now it looks like six. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to [find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)


	5. the last petal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst. I'm sorry! :(
> 
> I've not been well/at my best while writing this chapter so hopefully this makes sense/lives up to the other chapters.
> 
> (The Beast remembers more and there are quick and slight references to emotional and physical abuse in this chapter as a result.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos so far! It fuels my writing ;D

Graves isn't surprised to learn that the imposter is Gellert Grindelwald. He never did like that man, he thinks, watching his doppelganger shimmer and shift and turn back into the blond Auror. His skin crawls as the other man's eyes land on him, but Grindelwald is suspiciously silent as he is taken to the holding cells. Graves doesn't have time to think on it, though, needing his own identity verified by Seraphina and several others, to make it official, before he is allowed to go home.

The first thing he does, when he returns to his apartment – after coaxing Hecate out of hiding and feeding her – is to put the rose the Beast gave him in a vase, which he places on the mantel. It's perfume is strong, and Graves inhales it deeply as he sets it down. He trails a finger lightly over one soft, fleshy petal and wonders, again, why the Beast had been so insistent he return before the rose wilts. Another of his oddities, or something more important? He wishes that he'd solved the mystery of the Beast, but more than that he wishes he'd stayed at the castle. He sighs. 

A shiver runs through him as he turns and surveys the rest of his apartment. As soon as he gets a new wand, he's cleaning everything, thoroughly. Tonight he only cleans his favourite armchair, moving it in front of the fireplace, and, lulled by the hissing of the flames, sleeps there, not wanting to face his large, empty bed.

The next day, Graves is poked and prodded by Healers and Mediwizards on Seraphina Picquery's orders. He is given a clean bill of health and permission to get a new wand, which he does immediately. The weight of it is strange, new in his hand, and he resents having to get used to it. His plan had been to return to the castle, apparating back and forth between there and New York, when he acquired a new wand, but, once Picquery's shame lessens, she eyes him with the suspicion of both an old friend and the President of MACUSA. He's not sure she believes his statement – that he found himself, disoriented, no memory of who he was, in a wild forest, and sheltered in a nearby cabin – but he could never have told the truth. The Beast's life would be in danger if he had. She doesn't demand a statement under Veritaserum, so he thinks her suspicion lies in the thought that he's downplaying the traumatising effects of what happened to him, more than anything else. But he still won't risk going back to the castle, not yet.

Aside from inventing the memory loss, he mostly tells Seraphina the truth, with certain embellishments and some omissions. He tells her that he was saved by a stranger but he replaces the Beast with a mysterious No-Maj recluse, and the castle with a cabin in an unfamiliar forest, somewhere in the north. When his memory returned, he said, he'd made his way home.

When he tells her of the kindness of the recluse, warmth edging into his voice, she eyes him strangely. 'What?' he asks.

She taps a long nail on the desk that separates them and sips her coffee. 'You didn't go and fall in love with this recluse, did you?'

Graves flushes. 'No, of course not. Don't be absurd.' Him, in love, with the Beast? He was, is a friend. That's all. People just don't go about falling in love with strange, magical creatures. Once the question is asked, though, he finds his mind returning to it over and over. 'He's a...No-Maj, anyway.' 

'Mmm,' she says, but that knowing glint doesn't leave her eye and Graves finds, not for the first time, he can't hold her piercing gaze.

Grindelwald's interrogation takes place not long after Graves returns and he demands to conduct it, despite Seraphina's protestations – he's on edge, too stressed, should take some time off – but, with guilt still lingering, helped along with Graves's reminders of Grindelwald's deception, that not even she had noticed the difference, Seraphina finally relents. 'But I'll be observing,' she says, pointing a manicured finger at him. He acknowledges this with a nod and walks into the interrogation room. It's cold, with stark, bright lighting. 

Graves settles across from a magically shackled Gellert Grindelwald, forcing his face into a neutral expression and not the disgusted sneer he wants to give the other wizard. He places his hand over where his wand rests inside his jacket, Grindelwald's gaze tracking the movement, and straightens the papers before him on the wooden table.

'We've already administered the Veritaserum, sir,' says the guard, then leaves at Graves's dismissal.

Graves turns back to Grindelwald. 'Did you really think you'd get away with impersonating the Director of Magical Security?'

Grindelwald smirks. 'But I did, didn't I? And likely would have, forever, if that coward had killed you, like I told him to, instead of just hexing you. Honestly I should have just done it myself.' He pauses and looks Graves right in the eyes. 'Maybe I will, yet.'

Graves grits his teeth, already regretting the Veritaserum, and ignores the threat. 'I thought you organised that little outing for us. Were they all your followers?'

'I prefer to think of them as like-minded witches and wizards who agreed to help me. Having an insider at MACUSA was beneficial for them, too.'

'Like-minded in what way?' Graves shifts in his seat but resists the urge to rub his forehead. His head hurts, the light is too bright, and Grindelwald's voice grates on his nerves.

'They see the truth – that magical folk are superior to No-Maj's.'

Graves's nostrils flare and he grips the table harder. 'When did you come up with the plan?'

'A few months before we implemented it.' Grindelwald leans forward as much as he can. 'And if you want to know why I chose you, it's because I suspected, correctly it seems, no one here knew you well enough to realise the switch.' He leans back. 'And your dress sense is, I have to say, impeccable.'

'Thank-you,' Graves deadpans. 'And your plans while you were impersonating me?'

'Like I said, just to have a man on the inside, so to speak.'

'You'll have to elaborate.' Graves's ears start ringing. He swallows, thickly, mouth dry.

Grindelwald sighs, as though it should be obvious. 'It would be easier to recruit followers to my cause in a position of higher authority, to spread dissent through MACUSA, that sort of thing.' He leans forward again, eyes wild. 'We've lived long enough in the shadows...'

Graves holds up a hand, cutting him off. His head swims. 'That's it. I don't need to hear more of this.' 

He is shaking as he stands, leaves the room, ignoring the triumphant gleam in Grindelwald's eyes. Seraphina, who briefly eyes him with concern, takes over the rest of the interrogation. He returns to his office and sits heavily, head in his hands. He's not sure why he's so shaken. Questioning prisoners, protecting the wizarding world, used to be his life, used to thrill him, but today it's too much. He warms the coffee sitting on his desk, gulps some of the bitter liquid down, hoping it will steady him, but it does little good. All he wants is to be sitting in the library of a crumbling castle, book in his lap, with the Beast by his side.

__

The Beast had never counted days before Percival, never thought about time much, but now it's all he does. Each day as the sun rises and sets without his friend by his side, his melancholy grows and he retreats further into himself, again. At first, he continues the nightly ritual of reading, but soon finds there is little comfort and no joy in reading without someone to share the stories with. He will turn, sometimes, to tell Percival something only to remember he isn't there.

One night, he picks up the magic mirror that had shown Percival the imposter, taken him away from the Beast, longing to see his friend, again. He holds the handle tight, thinks of Percival and his heart leaps as his own reflection fades and morphs and there is Percival, handsome as ever. His heart lurches. He hadn't known how painful it would be to see the man's face, again, knowing he is so far from him and he roars, mournfully, throwing the mirror. It smashes into hundreds of glittering shards. He instantly regrets it, knowing he won't be able to look on Percival's face, again, until he comes back.

His days are spent much as they ever were – hunting, eating, sleeping – but with the added ache of longing for Percival. He tries to distract himself but there are too many reminders of the man. One day, he walks the gardens that they had started to clear, breathing in the warmer air, a breeze ruffling his fur. He stops by a rose bush that has somehow thrived and his chest tightens. It's the bush he picked the rose for Percival from.

When he had given Percival the rose, he had thought of everything he feels for the other man, and it felt like a piece of him, of his love, was going with his friend, back to New York. The Beast doesn't know where New York is, but it feels like another world. A world where the Beast would not be safe, Percival told him, but he would rather be in danger than alone with memories and books and roses. In that moment, passing the rose to Percival, it had felt significant, as though he had imbued the flower with the magic Percival had once said he must possess. Now he's not sure if he just imagined it, if it meant anything at all. If the rose was, after all, just a rose.

He realises, too late, he has crushed the stem of another rose, sister to Percival's, in his paw, thorns digging into tender flesh. It falls to the ground as he opens his grip, quickly, the sharp pain suddenly registering. He licks his wounds and retreats indoors, to the sanctum of the library, the cherished, holy room where he once tended to Percival and watched over him as he slept. 

The books they read are still in a pile by the fireplace, which he no longer bothers to light. It stands cold, full of charred wood and ash. He sits on the floor, picks up a favourite book, but he doesn't open it. Its musty, familiar scent is of no comfort, today. He was foolish to think his life could play out like a fairy tale, he thinks, claws tearing into the book as he grips it too tight. A man and a beast, living happily ever after? Pure fantasy. Still, he cannot help but long for the company of the man and suppresses his despair. Percival will return, must return, before the rose wilts. He had promised, after all.

__

Hecate watches her human from where she has settled on top of an armoire. There is still something wrong with him, she thinks. He's no longer cruel and cold, smells like himself, again, though another scent had mingled with his own, for a while. Not that awful, dark scent that had lingered for weeks; this was another animal. At least it hadn't been another cat and the scent had worn off soon enough. But, no, it's nothing like that. His shoulders sag, he doesn't smile at her the way he used to, with his eyes crinkling and sparkling, and he sighs a lot. He stares at the flower on the mantel – she'd been told sternly not to disturb it, which didn't stop her from leaping up and brushing past it, precarious as ever, while he looked on, exasperated – and he reads books she's never seen him with before, brow furrowed, head resting in one hand.

She licks a paw and watches as he drops onto his bed, looking tired and more sad than she's ever seen him. It won't do. She leaps down from her perch and jumps up onto his stomach, curling into herself. He huffs and runs his hand along her back. Usually, she'd be shooed off the bed – not that she ever went anywhere, and it was always a half-hearted demand, anyway – but tonight her human just pets her, sighing intermittently. Always sighing.

She meows at him but he only says 'good night,' and closes his eyes. Soon, he is snoring lightly but he frowns as he sleeps, not peaceful at all. She meows, again, and watches him until she falls asleep, too.

__

'Is there anything else I can do, Director?' Tina Goldstein is hovering near Graves's desk, radiating nervous energy. It's distracting.

'No,' he says, too brusque, as usual. He clears his throat. 'Thank-you.'

She turns away but hesitates by the door and turns back. 'I'm so sorry I didn't realise what Grindelwald had done.' There is a wobble in her voice and he looks up at her, sees her wringing her hands, biting her lip. He sets his quill down and folds his hands. 'It's...understandable. No one here knows me that well.' He pauses, adds, 'I don't make it easy.'

Tina's eyes widen at his easy confession, mouth opening momentarily, but she quickly schools her face into a small smile. 'Maybe you could come out with us, for a drink, after work?' she asks and then, blushing, adds, 'If it's not insubordinate of me to ask.'

Graves resists the urge to smirk. 'Perhaps another night. Thank-you.'

Tina leaves with a nod and Graves wonders if he will ever take her up on the offer. He assumes 'us' includes her sister, the Legilimens, Queenie, her beau whose name he can't remember, and that Scamander fellow Tina seems sweet on. He's not sure he likes the idea of being a fifth wheel.

He'd much rather be alone, he thinks, which is exactly how Grindelwald had managed to impersonate him without anyone noticing. Maybe he should make a better effort to get to know his staff and colleagues, though the prospect isn't appealing. He wonders if he's too old to start making friends, but then he remembers the Beast, their surprisingly easy friendship, and a longing wells up inside of him. That Grindelwald's deception, his plot to kill Graves, had lead him to something, _someone_ better than he'd known in years, is ironic to say the least. He pushes thoughts of the Beast away with a sigh and turns his attention back to the imposing pile of paperwork in front of him. Grindelwald had managed to evade most of it while posing as Graves, and now Graves has to pick up the slack. 

He quickly becomes reacquainted with the scratch of his quill and the scent of ink and parchment as he works. When he's not doing paperwork, there is always something else needing his attention at MACUSA, and as days pass, the prospect of returning to the castle slips further away from him. Will the Beast understand his long absence when he manages to get back? He had forgotten, in the emptiness, the serenity of his days at the castle, how hectic life can be here. The days, at least. Nights are slow, as lonely as ever.

He comes home each night to his large, chic apartment, pours a glass of whisky, which he sometimes drinks in the company of Hecate – she had been understandably skittish around him at first – and reads a book until it's time for bed. His sleek furniture, and elegant ornaments, no longer seem as appealing as they once were. It's all too stark. Lying in his plush bed, he tosses and turns, and longs for a sagging mattress and dusty pillows.

He barely sleeps and if he does, he doesn't dream of the young man who had visited him while he slumbered at the castle. In fact, he doesn't dream at all. He misses the mysterious dream man, but he misses the Beast more.

__

The Beast lies awake on the bed he had shared not so long ago with Percival. Without the man here it's harder to keep the memories at bay and they threaten to overwhelm him more with each passing hour. He tries to ignore them but it's of no use and they come back with stunning clarity.

He remembers a time when he did not have fur, or a tail, or claws. He remembers his true mother, a beautiful witch who was killed by hateful people. No one had loved him since then. Not since his mother, with her kind brown eyes, the quirked smile, the wink she'd send his way before casting some little charm to entertain him, the soft voice that sung him to sleep. She had given him the magic mirror when she had to leave him with another family for a few days. 'Think of me when you hold it, and you'll see I'm well and thinking of you, dearest.' And she had kissed his little head and stroked his hair and then she was gone. It was not long after that, some months, he thinks, she was taken from him forever.

He remembers being taken in by Mary Lou, a woman of vast wealth and no compassion; she stands before him in his mind's eye, switch in hand, always ready to beat him for some small or imagined transgression. The names she called him – freak, abomination, monster, beast – and how there was no one to stop her. 

He remembers magic in his blood, a beautiful thing until it learned to feed off of the hatred thrown at him by Mary Lou, souring into an all-consuming rage. And then he remembers fur and fangs and sharp claws and that Mary Lou's words were no longer enough to hurt him. The taste of blood and claws tearing through flesh and then alone, until Percival. The Beast sobs and roars and clutches at the pillow that still smells, just faintly, like Percival. 

He mourns a life he never got to live, a world of magic ripped from him, but if it weren't for this curse he never would have lived long enough to meet Percival. He doesn't know how long that is but he knows he's lived beyond the natural life of a human. At least there has been some good in all of this. But then he weeps again to think of Percival, his love, so far away, and salvation gone with him.

__

'Hello, darling.' Graves leans down to scratch between Hecate's ears. The apartment is quiet and still, except for Hecate's soft purr and the gentle scratch as she moves over the hardwood floors. 'Did you miss me?'

Hecate blinks up at him, then merely slinks off, again, padding softly on paws that remind him painfully of much larger ones. 'Guess not, then,' Graves says into the now empty room. 

He takes off his coat and scarf, levitating them to a hook by the door with a sigh. The apartment is kept warm with heating charms and he shucks off his jacket, too, draping it over a chair. He pours regular, but fine, whisky into a large tumbler, settles onto the sofa and kicks off his shoes. He doesn't bother to turn on the light. 

Tina Goldstein had asked him, again, to go out for drinks after work – 'everyone will be there, Director' – and he'd finally accepted, much to the younger Auror's surprise. He wondered if she had only kept asking out of politeness but she seemed pleased enough by his acceptance, once the initial surprise wore off. They had gone to a magical night club close by, popular with MACUSA employees, shielded carefully from No-Maj eyes. Graves had frequented it enough in his younger years but it had changed since he was last there. Jazz filled the air, now, and giggle water seemed to be the drink of choice for the magical clientele. Graves stuck to whisky. He sipped it in silence, occasionally joining in the conversation, but mostly keeping to himself.

The company of Tina and her friends was pleasant enough, but he felt out of place and left early. Tina, Queenie, Jacob, Newt – they were so young, filled with laughter and joy, as they chatted and drank, despite the awful things they sometimes see in the line of duty. Graves felt like he was sucking the fun out of the room by just being there. It was too loud, too close, too warm in the club, anyway. He'd made his excuses and only Tina protested his leaving so early. In the reality of his empty apartment, he's not so sure of being alone, but the only one he wants to spend his evening with may as well be in another world.

Moonlight falls through the open curtains and glints off of something, catching his eye. He turns and sees the crystal vase holding the rose the Beast had given him, still sitting on the mantel where he'd placed it when he first got home. How could he have forgotten it was there? The rose is all but dead, one wilted petal barely clutching to the stem. He sets down his tumbler, heavily, whisky spilling over his hand and walks over to the vase. As he does, the last petal falls, fluttering gently onto the mantel, and something twists within his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a bit sad writing this chapter. But there's still one left!!! And I'm excited to write it.
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments or [find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :) (speaking of tumblr I [started a mood tag for this fic](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/tagged/portentum) for some reason?) 
> 
> I now have a soundtrack for the fic which you can listen to [on playmoss here](https://playmoss.com/en/gothyringwald/playlist/portentum-soundtrack), [on 8tracks here](https://8tracks.com/gothyringwald/portentum-soundtrack) or [reblog on tumblr here](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/158007176817/portentum-a-gravescredence-beauty-the-beast) if you so wish. Enjoy! :)
> 
> I keep plotting myself into corners so, I decided, while Rappaport's Law still exists, it's slightly less severe, so with Graves saying he lost his memory and was stranded, he wouldn't be punished (because he said he was helped by a No-Maj). Or something. I'm making this up as I go along. And that's the best I could do in my current unwell state. 
> 
> Also, in my original version of this whole story, Jacob and Newt were going to actually appear and I'd decided they both worked at MACUSA (and that Jacob was a wizard) but I changed my plans and they weren't mentioned until this chapter. They still work at MACUSA, and Jacob's still a wizard in this version, it's just not relevant to the story as I ended up writing it (but I mentioned them in here and wanted to clarify any confusion).


	6. revelio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last chapter, folks!!! (And also the longest – about 5k) Thank you SO much to everyone who has left kudos, commented or just read this along the way. It's meant more than I can say <333
> 
> Not beta read, as usual.
> 
> Warning: there's some mild violence/gore in this chapter.

Graves's throat tightens, and he can barely breathe as he stares at the withered petal resting on the mantel. The clock beside the vase ticks, growing louder each second, his own laboured breaths syncopated with its rhythm. His arms hang heavy at his sides, blood tingling through them, heart pumping hard. He should move, he thinks dimly, do something. He needs his wand, needs to go back to the castle, back to the Beast, but he only remains transfixed by the petal. He swallows and startles when Hecate brushes past him. It finally spurs him into action, and he summons his wand and coat. The map he used for his journey home is spread over the coffee table and, with one last glance at it, he visualises the castle's courtyard, and apparates. 

As the world spins around him, he wonders why he's panicked – roses will die when they are picked, after all – but thinks it's because the dead rose is a symbol of a promise broken, one he'd made in good faith. The thought of hurting the Beast, his gentle friend, who had believed him when he said he would return before the rose died, does not sit well with him. That's all it is, he's certain, but it doesn't stop his stomach turning.

Moments after he disapparates, another figure, with slick icy blond hair, breaks through his wards. He doesn't find his quarry but he finds a map, a large 'X' conveniently marked, and, recognising the region, apparates in pursuit of Percival Graves.

__

The stone is cold beneath the Beast's fur as he lies in the courtyard, on the very spot he had found Percival all those nights ago. How gently he had tended to the man, how he longs to do so again. Where is Percival? Why hasn't he come back to him? As the promise of Percival's return had slowly withered so had his strength and purpose. Now, he cannot even muster the will to make his way to the room he shared with Percival to sleep, curls into himself on the dusty stone floor, instead. There is a loud crack, followed by rapidly approaching footsteps, but he thinks he must be only imagining the sounds, and closes his eyes with a sigh.

__

The castle is quiet and still, washed in dim, pale moonlight. It's as cool as ever, that same sickly sweet scent of rotting flowers mingling with fresh blooms hanging in the air. It smells like home. A dark figure is sprawled in the courtyard, almost, Graves is certain, on the spot where he had fallen himself that first night. He rushes over and kneels beside the Beast, whose eyes open slowly when Graves rests a hand on his chest.

'You came back,' the Beast says, but his voice is so soft and quiet, Graves barely hears him above the pounding of his blood.

Graves swallows, thickly. 'Yes. I'm sorry I took so long. I...' He trails off, uncertain what to say. How could words ever make amends? He looks the Beast over. The magic mirror - broken, now - is clutched in one paw; his other paw lays on his stomach. He seems smaller, somehow, unwell.

Graves brushes a hand over the Beast's brow. 'Are you OK? What's happened?' The Beast's heart beats, slow and irregular, beneath where his other hand still rests, chest rising and falling with shallow, rattling breaths.

The Beast blinks and looks away. 'I think I'm dying.'

Graves shakes his head. 'No...no, you can't be.' He takes one large paw between his hands, presses it tenderly to his face, brushes his cheek against soft fur. His throat aches, tight again, at the thought of how much he's missed his friend, at how the Beast seems to have suffered in his absence. There is something in the Beast's grasp and he takes it in his own, pulls his hand away to find the portrait miniature there. The witch within the frame smiles out at him, beautiful as ever. He stows it safely in the pocket of his trousers, before taking the Beast's paw in his hands once again.

'Why do you think you're dying? What happened?' The rose, he thinks. Was there truly magic in it, or has the Beast merely languished, his renewed solitude too much to bear? Guilt washes over Graves, to think of the Beast alone while he was in New York, the burden of his friend's suffering weighing heavily on him.

The Beast sighs. 'I love you.'

'What?' Is the Beast answering his question or merely making a declaration, he wonders, heart thundering.

'And you don't love me.' There is sad resignation in his voice and it tugs at Graves's heart.

Graves shakes his head. 'But...I...' Before he can make sense of his own racing thoughts, he is cut off by approaching footsteps, ringing out over the stone floor; he looks up to see Gellert Grindelwald, wand in hand, looming over them. His blood runs cold. Somehow, he is not surprised that the blond has escaped.

Graves reaches for his own wand, standing on shaking legs, but he's too slow and Grindelwald calmly disarms him with a flick of his wrist. A taunting smirk twists his face as he holds Graves's wand in the opposite hand to his own.

'Well,' says Grindelwald, peering around Graves. His eyes are wide, shining fervently, as he looks at the Beast. 'I came here to kill you, but it seems I've stumbled upon hidden treasure.'

Graves stays silent, hands fisted by his sides. He could easily summon his own wand back, but doesn't want to start a duel with the Beast nearby. He could try disarming Grindelwald wandlessly, take both wands and overpower him, or maybe use his physical strength, tackle the other man. But if he's not careful, doesn't time it right, he could get hurt, or worse, and will not be able to protect the Beast. He wishes he'd skipped the whisky at the club, earlier.

'Who's your pet?'

Graves bristles. 'He's not a pet.' 

Behind him, the Beast stirs. 'Percival...'

Grindelwald's eyebrows shoot up. 'It talks,' he says, voice tinged with awe as he moves closer. Graves doesn't like it.

'You want to kill me, fine. Let's do it somewhere else.' Graves needs to get Grindelwald away from the Beast, but Grindelwald only throws his head back and laughs. 'It's endearing that you think you have some say in this,' he says and Graves grits his teeth.

'Kill you?' comes the Beast's voice, louder than it was before, and Graves turns to see him sitting back on his haunches, stronger now, but still weak. 'What do you mean?' He looks at Grindelwald. 'Who are you?' 

'I, dear creature, am a man with a vision and your friend, here, foiled my plans. Let's just say I didn't like that. So I've decided to kill him,' Grindelwald answers with a sneer.

The Beast roars but it is feeble, almost pitiful, and Grindelwald only laughs. Graves is surprised Grindelwald hasn't just killed him, by now, but he seems amused by this conversation, by the Beast's current frailty despite his fearsome stature. He can't keep his gaze off of him, eyes gleaming in a way that unsettles Graves. While the other man's attention is on the Beast, Graves rushes him but, without even looking his way, Grindelwald sends him flying with another flick of his wrist. He crashes into the wall with a groan, sliding to the floor. 

'Points for effort, Percy,' says Grindelwald, looking down at him, now, where Graves is sprawled, hands braced on the cold floor. Grindelwald's light tone belies the anger in his gaze.

Graves pushes off of the floor, with a pained grunt, dusting himself off. He steadies himself, moves over to the Beast, positioned between his friend and the other wizard. The Beast's attention is focussed solely on Grindelwald. 'You will not hurt Percival, again,' says the Beast, now up on his knees. 

'Protective, isn't he?' Grindelwald arches an eyebrow, smirking at Graves, then turns to the Beast. 'And you're going to stop me, are you?'

'Yes,' says the Beast and Graves hears the growl in it as the Beast draws himself to his full height, his previous malady shaken off. The air crackles with the strange magic he has felt in the castle, before. His hairs stand on end and he can taste it at the back of his throat, metallic and sharp. It's thrilling. Graves tenses, but Grindelwald remains amused, can't seem to sense the threat.

'Oh, yes,' the blond says, 'You'll make a fine pet, once I tame you. But first, I must get rid of your Percival. Sorry.' He points his wand at Graves, arm outstretched. 

A chill runs through Graves as Grindelwald utters, 'Avada...' at him for the second time in as many weeks. He should fight, but he's tired, and his mind is surprisingly calm when he closes his eyes. He only hopes Grindelwald won't hurt the Beast when he's gone. His eyes snap open when The Beast roars, deafening now, stepping between Graves and Grindelwald – 'No!' yells Graves, arm thrust out in a futile attempt to stop the Beast – but Grindelwald, once again, never gets to finish his curse. 

The room darkens, and the Beast's eyes turn white. He swipes with one great paw, knocking both wands from Grindelwald's hold, claws gleaming crimson with blood drawn from the wizard's palm. The wands clatter to the floor, but Graves can't hear them over the ringing in his ears.

'L-let's not be hasty, dear creature,' Grindelwald stammers, slowly edging backwards, but the Beast advances on him.

The magic Graves has always suspected was lurking within the Beast rises up, fully now, and it is dizzying, breathtaking. Time moves slowly and Graves dimly registers that he should stop the Beast, take Grindelwald in so he can be put on trial, but he can't move, his limbs heavy, leaden. 

Thick tendrils of black smoke curl around Grindelwald, holding him in place; he starts to scream but then the Beast is on him, tearing his throat from his neck and he goes limp, silent. There is the the slick tearing of flesh, the crunch of bone, the stench of innards, and Graves falls to his knees, can only watch as the Beast tears Grindelwald apart with claws and fangs and magic until there is nothing left that is recognisable as human. His heart beats fast, but he is not afraid, could never be afraid of the Beast. The smoke retreats, the Beast hunched on all fours, maw bloodied, and Graves feels light-headed, his breaths shallow and heaving. His head spins and he leans over, retching, emptying the meagre contents of his stomach onto the stone floor. 

The Beast has collapsed and Graves wipes over his mouth, rushes to his side, once more. He looks even weaker, now; his eyes are brown again but dull, their usual twinkle gone, then they slide closed. Graves sinks his hands into the Beast's mane, heedless of the blood and fragments of bone matting it. 'You saved my life,' he whispers, and then louder, 'You have to wake up.' Suddenly, he can't stand the sight of Grindelwald's remains all over the Beast and summons his wand, which lies in a sticky pool of viscera, to cast a cleaning spell. 

The Beast's fur is clean, now, shining in the moonlight. His eyes open and Graves sighs, relieved, until the Beast says, 'I'm happy I could see you again, before...before I die.'

'Don't say that. You can't die.' His last word breaks over a sob, catching in his throat.

'It's my time. I've lived so long. At least my last few months were with you.' And the Beast rests a paw on Graves's knee before his eyes close, one last time. 

'No, no. I love you, too.' Graves kisses the Beast's snout, his eyelids, buries his face in thick fur and weeps. It's not fair, he thinks, Grindelwald came here to kill him and now it's cost the Beast his life and Graves his only true friend, his true love. His shoulders shake as he continues to weep over the Beast's prone form. Eventually, he realises the fur beneath him is no longer fur but warm, human skin. He pulls back and sees his hands are sunk into silken soft hair, and that it is not the Beast's head cradled by his palms, but a young man's. The young man from his dreams.

'It's you.' He runs his hand through the man's hair, over his face, down to his neck where a steady pulse thrums beneath soft, pale skin. 'You're alive.'

The man's eyes flutter open; he looks dazed but smiles, pushes his face into Graves's hand, sighing. His voice is hoarse when he says, 'You said you loved me.'

'I meant it.' Graves is actually giddy, thinks he may cry, again, with relief and wonder and joy.

The man looks down at himself, then back up at Graves, eyes bright and shining. 'I know you did.'

Graves takes the man into his arms. He is warm and solid and so very real. He buries his face in dark hair, inhales the faint scent of smoke that will always make him think of the Beast. 'You said you loved me, too,' he murmurs.

'I do.' The man pulls back, smiling, but then his expression falls. 'That man. He wanted to hurt you, are you...is he...?' He runs his hands over Graves, sending sparks of electricity through him wherever he touches. He leaves a hand resting on the juncture of Graves's neck, one braced over his heart.

Graves frowns. Doesn't he remember? 'He's gone. You uh...' He gestures to the carnage that was once Gellert Grindelwald.

The man's eyes widen and he swallows heavily as he surveys the courtyard. A slim, long-fingered hand comes up to his mouth. 'I did that.' It's not a question, and Graves can see he remembers, now, from the uneasy set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.

Graves only nods, cups the man's jaw, not knowing what to say, but then there is a deafening crack and he looks up to see a split in the nearest wall. It runs down to the floor, which quakes ominously beneath them. Rubble rains from above, and the castle continues to shake, thundering as it splits apart.

The man looks around, wide-eyed, holding onto Graves's forearms tightly. 'What's happening?' 

'I don't know but I think we should leave.' The young man nods, allowing Graves to pull him to his feet. Graves brushes his hands over the man's shoulders, only now noticing that it is bare skin beneath his hands. He shouldn't be surprised that the other man is naked – he was never clothed as the Beast, after all – but as he looks down the length of the man's body, he flushes all the same. Graves clears his throat and slips his coat off, putting it around the man's shoulders. 

'Here, put this on,' he says, and the man shrugs but slides his arms into the sleeves, lets Graves button the coat up, closing his eyes as he pulls the collar up around his face and inhales. Graves's face burns and he looks away. He thinks back to that first night and, ignoring for a moment that the castle is shaking and falling apart around them, asks, 'Do you have a name?' 

The man looks up and, grinning, answers, 'Yes. It's Credence.'

__

Credence is held safely in Percival's strong arms as the world falls away, spinning around the two men in a dizzying whirl. Moments later, they land in an unfamiliar room, and Credence stumbles on coltish legs. He's not used to human limbs after all those years as a Beast. Everything feels like it's in the wrong place, but it's good, he thinks, to be himself, again. To be with Percival, again. The other man is still holding him close, but, even though they're touching like this, Credence can hardly believe it's real. It would all feel like a beautiful dream if he couldn't still taste that man's blood at the back of his throat, in between his teeth. Shame creeps up his chest, through his throat, white-hot, and he turns his face from Percival's gaze.

A crackling sound comes from the other side of the room and Percival turns sharply, releasing Credence and crossing to the fireplace. Credence follows, alarmed to see a woman's head floating in green flames. 'What-?' he starts but Percival looks over his shoulder and shakes his head, a finger against his lips. Credence nods, stays silent, hugging his arms around himself. His mind is awhirl but he focuses on the strange visage before him, the hiss and pop of the flames and the acrid scent drifting through the air. 

'Percival! Where have you been? Are you alone?' Says the woman's head, as she cranes her neck as if to see beyond Percival to where Credence stands, hidden, he hopes, in the shadows, but close enough to look on. Percival glances over his shoulder again, profile silhouetted by the eerie green glow of the flames below him. His eyes soften as he looks at Credence, and the younger man's heart skips a beat. His face warms and he looks away.

Something soft brushes against his bare leg. He looks down and sees a black cat circling him. 'You must be Hecate,' he whispers, rubbing below her chin. She purrs and he picks her up, holding her close to his chest as he stands. 

'Uh, yes,' says Percival, angling himself, Credence thinks, to block him completely from the woman's view. 'I've just been out, Sera. Is there a problem?'

Sera huffs. 'You could say that. Grindelwald's escaped. I don't want you leaving your apartment again until I say so. Is that clear?'

'As crystal,' answers Percival, one hand on his hip. Credence edges closer, again, still cradling Hecate against him.

The furniture in this room is all sleek lines and curves, highly polished wood contrasted with vivid fabrics. Behind Credence there are plush sofas, which he thinks are bright red but the green glow of the magic flames casts them darker, murky. Where the furniture is impeccably shaped, speaks of elegance and sophistication, everything else is messy. Papers and books sit in haphazard piles, empty glasses litter various flat surfaces, items of clothing hang over the backs of chairs. Credence likes it. The fireplace, where Percival stands, is surrounded by green tiles, the mantel a dark, satin wood.

In the grate, Sera's eyes narrow. 'You're being very calm about this. I thought you'd demand to lead the search party, yourself.'

Percival spreads his hands. 'Maybe I've finally learnt to submit to your authority.'

'Ha,' says Sera. 'That will be the day. I'm too busy to argue about this, but don't think I won't follow up.'

'Looking forward to it,' says Percival.

'Hmm. Just make sure you strengthen your wards. I can't send any Aurors over, they're all out looking for Grindelwald. I'll check in tomorrow.'

'OK. Good night, Sera.'

'Good night, Percival,' she says, suspicion evident in her voice, and with one last searching look beyond Percival, she disappears, the flames sparking and burning out with her. 

Percival sags, arm braced on the mantel. The apartment is darker, now, with only moonlight falling through open curtains to illuminate it. Credence hesitantly places a hand on the older man's shoulder, letting Hecate jump out of his hold to land gracefully and silently on nimble feet. Credence is pleased when Percival places his own hand atop his, squeezing gently. His eyes drift to the mantel where a bare stem sits in a vase, one withered petal below it. His breath catches and he cuts his gaze back to Percival, the arch of his neck, a spot just below his ear that he suddenly wants to touch, but doesn't. To dwell on the rose, being alone in the castle all that time, won't do and they are together, now, anyway. 

Percival sighs. 'I don't like lying, letting my Aurors waste their time, but I can't explain tonight to them. Not yet.' Percival turns, leaning back against the fireplace, arms crossed. 'Maybe not ever,' he adds.

'Oh,' says Credence, at a loss for other words. He wonders if he should apologise, the instinct to do so almost overwhelming but, instead, he gestures to the grate. 'What was that?'

'Hmm?' Percival looks down. 'Oh, that was Seraphina Picquery. Using the floo network.'

Credence frowns. He remembers the name, Picquery, from when Percival told him about his life in New York. She is his boss and an old friend – he remembers feeling jealous that Percival had other friends, and blushes. But 'floo network' means nothing to him, doesn't remember it from his life before, either. 'The what?'

'I'll explain later.' He pushes off the mantel, and takes Credence's elbows in his hands, brow knit in concern. 'Are you OK?'

'Yes, I feel good...better than I ever have, I think.' Credence says, surprised that it's true. Although he's sure it will take some getting used to being in this body again, he is well and happy. Percival runs a hand through Credence's long hair, falling in waves about his face, eliciting a content sigh from the younger man.

'How am I ever going to explain _you_?' asks Percival, fingers trailing lightly over Credence's cheek. He has always cherished and longed for Percival's touch, since they first met, but feeling it as he is, now, is all the more thrilling.

Percival takes Credence's face in his hands, fingers splayed over his jaw, one thumb stroking along a high cheekbone. His voice is low when he says, 'I'd like to kiss you...may I?' 

'Oh,' says Credence, eyes darting to Percival's mouth, and then, 'Yes'. 

Strong fingers draw him closer and then there are lips against his and Credence moans, softly, closing his eyes. The kiss is gentle and too brief but it is Credence's first and it is with Percival, and he is certain that it is perfect. He hums, happily, as their lips part and Percival pulls him into a tight embrace. It reminds Credence of the hug they shared before Percival left the castle for New York, but this one speaks of beginnings, certainty, not separation and wondering if they'll ever see each other again.

'Where will I live now that the castle is gone?' Credence murmurs into Percival's neck. He breathes in his scent, warm and familiar.

'With me.' Percival pulls back and Credence thinks he might be blushing. 'If you want.'

Credence ducks his head. 'Yes, of course.'

'I'm so sorry your home is gone.' Percival brushes a hand over Credence's forehead, down to his neck. The older man can't seem to stop touching him, but Credence certainly doesn't mind. He nuzzles against the palm resting on his cheek, turns to place a shy kiss there.

'It doesn't matter,' he says, dizzy from being kissed and caressed, 'I have you.' It comes out more like a question than he'd intended.

'Always,' Percival says, and Credence's heart soars. 

'Oh. I saved this for you.' Percival produces the portrait miniature from his pocket, handing it to Credence. 'Thank-you,' he breathes, tears pricking his eyes, his mother smiling up at him. He remembers her more vividly with each moment, memories he knows he'll cherish, but having a physical keepsake of her is quite another thing.

Percival guides them to sit on one of the sofas, whispering something that bathes the room in warm, soft light. 'How did this happen to you? Do you remember?' He asks, one arm around Credence's waist, firm and reassuring.

'Yes', Credence says and explains all he has remembered, about his true mother – 'Is this her?' 'Yes' 'I saw her in a dream,' says Percival, finger trailing over the portrait frame – and Mary Lou after her, how she mistreated him, beat him, how one day he was no longer human and how he lived alone for so long, until Percival stumbled into his castle. He's crying by the end and Percival wipes his tears away with gentle fingers, holds him close and kisses his hair.

'Maybe she was right.'

Percival rubs a hand over his back. 'Who?'

Credence thinks of claws tearing through flesh, eviscerating, and has to take a deep breath to steady himself. 'Mary Lou. When she called me a monster. I killed her. And I killed that man who came to hurt you.'

'You _saved_ me, Credence.' Percival takes one of his hands, places it on his chest, where Credence can feel his heart thudding beneath flesh and muscle and bone. 

He snatches his hand away, thinking of another heart that will beat no longer because of him. 'I didn't have to kill him to do that, though.'

'I've killed people, Credence. In the war, in my work. Am I a monster, to you?'

Credence shakes his head. He would never think of Percival that way. But tears spill, rolling down his cheeks and settling in the corners of his mouth, hot and salty. 'Do you ever forget?'

Percival rests their foreheads together, one hand wrapped around the back of Credence's neck. 'No.'

'I can still taste his blood,' Credence whispers, breath hitching.

'You're not a monster, Credence, I swear. You never have been. You're so good.' Percival kisses his temple, his cheek, tracing the track of his tears. 'My good, sweet boy.'

Credence warms, near burning, at Percival's words and not just for their reassurance. They make something unfamiliar or long forgotten coil in the pit of his belly, but it is not unpleasant. Quite the opposite. He breathes heavily and shakes his head. He has another question to ask. 'You know more about magic than I ever did. Do you know why this happened to me? If it's happened to anyone else?'

'I don't know, I'm sorry.' Percival sighs. 'I've never heard of anything like this, Credence. Maybe your magic tried to protect you by turning you into something bigger, stronger. But with you trying to...repress your magic, and the way you were treated, maybe it got muddled.' He takes a breath. 'I wish I could explain.' 

Credence nods, head cradled against Percival's neck, and toys with one of the buttons on Percival's coat.

'Your magic must have still been looking out for you – I think it called out to me in those dreams,' says Percival, chin resting on the top of Credence's head.

Credence frowns and pulls away so he can look at the older man. 'Dreams?'

Percival nods. 'I dreamed of you. Every night at the castle. Human, like this.' He pauses and cups Credence's face. 'Oh,' says Credence. Percival kisses him and Credence feels the world fall away, again, clutching at Percival's shoulders, but it's not like when Percival spirited him here. No, this is exhilarating, and he quickly loses himself in the feel of the other man's lips moving against his, the taste of him as he opens his mouth and their tongues meet. This kiss is longer, deeper, and Credence feels a little clumsy, but it is just as perfect as their first.

Their breaths are shallow and quick when they pull away, Percival's lips shining red and so inviting. Credence shifts, feels too hot in the heavy coat, and he slips the top button open.

Percival tracks the movement, and Credence is certain, now, that the older man is blushing. Percival rubs his ear and clears his throat. 'In the dreams you asked me to save you, said that I could do it if I loved you. So I...broke the curse?'

Credence shrugs – something about that seems right, familiar, in the way Percival's mention of his magic calling to him in dreams had – but he is overwhelmed, bewildered. 'I suppose so.' He bites his lip. 'What would you have done if I hadn't turned human, again?'

'I'd have stayed with you,' Percival answers, insistent. 'I love you, whatever...form you possess.'

Credence grins, feeling lighter, heart full to bursting, everything else forgotten for the moment. Percival loves him. 'I love you, too.'

They kiss again, only pulling apart when Hecate meows and jumps up onto Credence's lap, kneading her paws on his thighs, before settling down. He laughs. 

'I think Hecate likes you, too,' says Percival, stroking his hand over the cat's sleek fur. It reminds Credence of the fur that covered him, just hours ago.

He rubs Hecate's chin, again, then reaches out to take Percival's hand in his. They are the same size, now, he thinks, more or less. His paw used to dwarf Percival's hand. He kisses Percival's knuckles, then presses his hand to his cheek. He thinks of the stories they read together, how he'd imagined Percival as his prince, then despaired of ever seeing him, again. But here they are, happy and together and, more importantly, alive. 'I think I got my fairy tale after all,' he says.

Percival half-frowns, half-smiles at him, seeming perplexed, but Credence doesn't want to explain, not tonight. So he leans over and kisses Percival, again, and again, and again, intent on kissing the other man as long as his heart beats within his breast.

__

With a belly full of milk, Hecate lazily watches Percival and the new human, Credence, as they sit entwined on the sofa, each holding a book, from her spot on the floor. They are both engrossed in their reading, seem content as they sit with the blanket spread over them. Hecate herself is warm by the fire and needs neither food, nor drink. Still, she meows until she has their attention, Credence scooping her up and settling her into his lap, and she purrs, satisfied. Percival leans over and scratches between her ears, absentmindedly, his glasses a little askew. Credence pushes them back into place, then returns to his book, cuddling Hecate closer, which she allows with only the smallest protest. Percival has been smiling more, the way he used to, since Credence has come to live here, so she doesn't mind sharing his attention, too much. Besides, Credence always remembers to feed her, never scolds her and has warm, gentle hands. And now she has two humans to tend to her every whim. Yes, she thinks as Credence runs his hand along her back, eliciting another purr, this one can stay.

__

Once upon a time there was a man who forgot how to love. He lived alone for many years, surrounded by colleagues and acquaintances, but with no true friends. His life was consumed by work and work and little else. And so he lived until, one day, by chance, he met a strange Beast, who had forgotten what it was to be loved. They found comfort in their mutual loneliness and friendship after years of solitude. The magic that lay dormant within the Beast called to the man in his dreams, showing him the Beast's true self. Love flourished between them, though the man did not recognise it as such until it was nearly too late. When it seemed all hope was lost, love, as it often does, broke the curse and The Beast became human again. All was as it finally should be, and together, the two men lived, quite happily, until they were very old, indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, we made it! Please feel free to let me know what you thought in a comment, [or come find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/), if you like :) (and always feel free to point out spelling mistakes).
> 
> I originally wrote up another little bit for this chapter, that was epilogue-ish but I felt that gave it too many endings. Perhaps I'll expand it and post up a one-shot follow up? If anyone is interested? It'll be a little ways in the future (I'm working on some other fic with these two, though) but I'd like to explore Credence adjusting to human life again a bit more. And Graves adjusting to sharing his life. And Hecate getting used to sharing her human. (I have grown fond of that cat).
> 
> Oh, and, ICYMI I now have a soundtrack for the fic which you can listen to [on playmoss here](https://playmoss.com/en/gothyringwald/playlist/portentum-soundtrack), [on 8tracks here](https://8tracks.com/gothyringwald/portentum-soundtrack) or [reblog on tumblr here](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/158007176817/portentum-a-gravescredence-beauty-the-beast) if you so wish. Enjoy! :)


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